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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



Barrett Bj 



rLIZABETH DARRETT DROWNING. 



COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 



CORRECTED BY THE LAST LONDON EDITION. 



NEW YORK: 

JAMES MILLER, PUBLISHER, 
779 Broadway. 



PK^ 






The right of publishing this hook in the Uitited States hav- 
ing been liberally purchased by Mr. James Miller, // is hoped 
that there will be no interference with the same, 

Robert Browning. 

London, February 20, i86a. 

Transfer 
Engineer School \^\\yi% 
Aug.l2,lS31 



DEDICATION. 



TO MY FATHER. 

When your eyes fall upon this page of dedication, and you start to see to 
whom it is inscribed, your first thought will be ofi the time far off when I was a 
child and wrote verses, and when I dedicated them to you, who were my public 
and my critic. Of all that such a recollection implies of saddest and sweetest to 
both of us, it would become neither of us to speak before the world : nor would it 
be possible for us to speak of it to one another, with voices that did not falter. 
Enough, that what is in my heart when I write thus, will be fully known to yours. 
And my desire is that yoti, who are a witness how if this art of poetry had 
been a less earnest object to me, it must have fallen from exhausted hands before 
this day, — that you, who have shared with me in things bitter and sweet, softening 
or enhancing them every day — that you, who hold with me over all sense of loss 
and transiency, one hope by one Name, — may accept the inscription of these 
volumes, the exponents of a few years of an existence which has been sustained 
'and comforted by you as well as given. Somewhat more faint-hearted than I 
used to be, it is my fancy thus to seem to return to a visible personal dependence 
on you, as if indeed I were a child again ; to conjure your beloved image be- 
tween.myself and the public, so as to be sure of one smile, — and to satisfy my 
heart while I sanctify my ambition, by associating with the great pursuit of my 
life, its tenderest and holiest affection. 

Your 

E. B. B, 



AD VERTI8EMENT. 



This edition, including my earlier and later writings, I 
have endeavored to render as little unworthy as possible of 
the indulgence of the public. Several poems I would wil- 
lingly have withdrawn, if it were not almost impossible to 
extricate what has been once caught and involved in the 
machinery of the press. The alternative is a request to 
the generous reader that he may use the weakness c^ 
those earlier verses, which no subsequent revision . 
succeeded in strengthening^ less as a reproach to the write, 
than as a means of marking some progress in her othe i 

attempts. 

E. B. B. 



CONTEKTS, 



rAGB 

The Seraphim 15 

The Poet's Vow 29 

The Romaunt of Margret 36 

Isobel's Child 39 

A Romance of the Ganges 45 

An Island 48 

The Deserted Garden 4 51 

The Soul' Travelling 52 

Sounds 55 

Night and the Merry Man 57 

Earth and her Praisers 58 

The Virgin Mary to the Child Jesus 61 

Memory and Hope ; 63 

A Portrait 65 

Hector in the Garden 65 

A Valediction 67 

A Child's Thought of God 68 

The Sleep 68 

Man and Nature .- 69 

A Sea-side Walk 69 

The Sea-mew 70 

My Doves 70 

To Mary Russell Mitford in her Garden 71 

The Exi le's Return y. 7a 

Oro'wpg against Singing 72 

C;-o' Measure 75 

A per's Grave 73 

T i Weakest Thing 75 

sl /e Pet-Name 75 

]Vo Flush, my Dog 76 



«0^ 



NNETS : 

Bereavement 78 

/ Consolation 78 

The Soul's Expression 78 

The Seraph and the Poet 79 

On a Portrait of Wordsworth 79 

Past and Future » . . . . 79 

Irreparableness 79 

* Tears ^ 80 

Grief 80 

Substitution 80 

Comfort 80 

Perplexed Music 81 

Work 81 

' Futurity 81 



•xii CONTENTS. 

V 

Sonnets f continued. J fagb 

The Two Sayings 8 1 

'J'he Look 82 

'I'lie Meaning of the Look 82 

A Thought for a Lonely Death-Bed 83 

Work and Contemplation 83 

Pain in Pleasure 83 

An Apprehension 83 

Discontent 83 

Patience taught by Nature 84 

Cheerfulness taught by Reason 84 

Exaggeration 84 

Adequacy 84 

To George Sand. — A Desire 85 

To George Sand. — A Recognition 85 

The Prisoner 85 

Insufficiency 85 

Flush or Faunus 86 

Finite and Infinite 86 

Two Sketches 86 

Mountaineer and Poet 87 

The Poet 87 

Hiram Powers' Greek Slave 87 

Life 88 

Love 88 

Heaven and Earth 88 

The Prospect 88 

Hugh Stuart Boyd — his Blindness 89 

Hugh Stuart Boyd— his Death 89 

Hugh Stuart Boydr— Legacies 8g 

Loved Once go 

A Rhapsody of Life's Progress 91 

The House of Clouds oa 

Cathrina to Camoens ^_, 

Wine of Cyprus 97 

The Dead Pan 99 

Sleeping and Watching 102 

Lessons from the Gorse 10; 

The Claim 103 

A Sabbath Morning at Sea 103 

The Mask 104 

Stanzas 105 

The Young Queen 105 

Victoria's Tears 106 

Romance of the Swan's Nest 107 

A Man's Requirements 108 

Prometheus Bound 109 

A Lament for Adonis 129 

Bertha in the Lane 131 

That Day 134 

Life and Love 134 

I'he Runaway Slave at Pilgrim's Point 134 

A Child's Grave at Florence 138 

Sonnets from the Portuguese 14'^ 

Paraphrase on Heine i5' 



CONTENTS. stiif 

PARAPHRASE ON THEOCRITITS — FAGR 

The Cyclops •••••••••*•••..• 153 

PARAPHRASES ON APULEIUS — 

Psyche Gazing on Cupid , 155 

Psyche Wafted by Zephyrus 156 

Psyche and Pan 156 

Psyche propitiating Ceres .,,,..-., 157 

Psyche and the Eagle , 158 

Psyche and Cerberus 158 

Psyche and Proserpine 158 

Psyche and Venus 159 

Mercury carries Psyche to Olympus , 159 

Marriage of Psyche and Cupid 159 

PARAPHRASES ON NONNUS — 

How Bacchus finds Ariadne Sleeping 159 

How Bacchus comforts Ariadne , 161 

PARAPHRASE ON HESIOD — 

Bacchus and Ariadne «9ec ,.,..,,,... .,.. ..,,,.. i6a 

PARAPHRASE ON EURIPIDES — 

Antistrophe ,„....„.-.,.. . ., 162 

PARAPHRASES ON HOMER— 

Hector and Andromache 162 

The Daughters of Pandarus 164 

Another Version 165 

PARAPHRASE ON ANACREON — 

Ode to the Swallow 165 

Song of the Rose 165 

The Fourfold Aspect 166 

A Drama of Exile 167 

The Lost Bower 201 

The Romaunt of the Page 206 

The Lay of the Brown Rosary 211 

A Vision of Poets 219 

Crowned and Wedded jjjz 

Crowned and Buried 233 

A Flower in a Letter 236 

To Bettine 238 

Stanza on the Death of Mrs. Hemans , . . . 223 

My Heart and 1 239 

Wisdom Unapplied 240 

The Cry of the Human 241 

A Lay of the Early Rose 242 

Rhyme of the Duchess May 245 

The Lady's "Yes," 254 

L. E. L.'s Last Question 255 

A Child Asleep 256 

The Poet and the Bird 256 

The Mourning Mother 258 

Calls on the Heart < 259 

Human Life's Misery 260 

The Little Friend 257 

Inclusions 262 

Insufficiency 26 1 

A Dead Rose 261 



*ir CONTENTS. 

PACK 

A Woman's Shortcomings 262 

A Year's Spinning 263 

Change upon Change 263 

A Reed 263 

Casa Guidi Windows 264 

The Cry of the Children 299 

Napofeon III. in Italy 302 

The Dance 307 

A Tale of Villafranca 309 

A Court Lad y 316 

An August Voice 310 

Christmas Gifts 311 

Italy and the World 312 

A Curse for a Nation 314 

Confessions 318 

Aurora Leigh — 

First Book 321 

Second Book 3j8 

Third Book , 358 

Fourth Book 377 

Fifth Book 397 

Sixth Book 418 

Seventh Book 438 

Eighth Book 459 

Ninth Book 480 

Lady Geraldine's Courtship 495 

Lord Walter's Wife 505 

Little Mattie 507 

May's Love 508 

A False Step 508 

Void in Law 508 

Bianca among the Nightingales 509 

My Kate 511 

A Song for the Ragged Schools of London 512 

Amy's Cruelty 514 

The Best Thing in the World 515 

Where's Agnes ? 515 

De Profundis 517 

A Musical Instrument 519 

First News from Villafranca 521 

King Victor Emanuel entering Florence, April, i860... 522 

Sword of Castruccio Castrucani , 523 

Summing up in Italy 524 

" Died " 52a 

A Forced Recruit at Solferino 523 

Garibaldi 524 

Only a Curl 52s 

A View across the Roman Campagna. 1861 526 

Parting Lovers 527 

Mother and Poet 52^ 

Nature's Remorses 530 

The King's Gift 532 

The North and the South 5:j7 



POEMS 



THE SERAPHIM 



PART THE FIRST. 

It Is the time of tlie Crucifixion ; and tlie 
angels of heaven have depaiteil towanls the 
earth, except the two Seraphim, Ador the 
Strong and Zerah the Bright One. 

The place is the outer isiUe of the shut hea- 
venly gate. 

Ador. O SERAPH, pause no more ! 

Beside this gate of Heaven we stand 
alone. 
Zerah. Of Heaven ! 
Ador. Our brother hosts are gone — 
Zerah. Are gone before. 

rdor. And the golden harps the 
angels bore 
To help the songs of their desire, 
i Still burning from their bands of fire, 
Lie without touch or tone 
Upon the glass-sea shore. 
Zerah. Silent upon the glass-sea shore! 
Ador. There the shadow from the 

throne — 
Formless with infinity. 
Hovers o'er the crystal sea ; 

Awfuller than light derived. 
And red with those primseval heats 

Whereby all life has lived. 
Zerah. Our visible God, our heavenly 

seats ! 
Ador. Beneath us sinks the pomp an- 
gelical. 
Cherub and seraph, powers and vir- 
tues, all, — 



The roar of whose descent has died 

To a still sound, as thunder into rain. 
Immeasurable space spreads magnified 

With that thick life, along the plane 
The worlds slid out on. What a fall 
And eddy of wings innumerous,crossed 
By trailing curls that have not lost 
The glitter of the God-smile shed 
On every prostrate angel's head ! 
What gleaming up of hands that fling 
Their homage in retorted rays. 
From high instinct of worshipping. 

And habitude of praise. 
Zerah. Rapidly they drop below lis. 
Pointed palm and wing and hair. 
Indistinguishable show us 
Only pulses in the air 
Throbbing with a fiery beat. 
As if a new creation heard 
Some divine and plastic word. 
And trembling at its new found being. 

Awakened at our feet. 
Ador. Zerah, do not wait for seeing. 
His voice, it is, that thrills us so 
As we our harpstrings. uttered Go, 
Behold the Holy in his woe — 
And all are gone, save thee and — 
Zerah. ^ Thee ! 

Ador. I stood the nearest to the 

throne 
In hierarchical degree. 
What time the Voice said Go. 
And whether I was moved alone 
By the storm-pathos of the tone 



THE SERAPHIM. 



Which swept through Heaven the alien 
name of %voe. 

Or whether the subtle glory broke 
Through my strong and shielding 

wings, 
Bearing to my finite essence 
Incapacious of their presence, 
Infinite imaginings, 
None knoweth save the Throned who 

spoke ; 
But I, who, at creation, stood upright 
And heard the God-Breath move, 
Shaping the words that lightened, 'Be 
there light,' 

Nor trembled but with love, 
Now fell down shudderingly. 
My face upon the pavement whence I 

had towered. 
As if in mine immortal overpowered 
By God's eternity. 
Zerah. Let me wait ! — let me wait !— 
Ador. Nay, gaze not backward 
through the gate. 
God fills our heaven with God's own 
solitude 

Till all the pavements glow : 
His Godhead being no more subdued 
By itself, to glories low 

Which seraphs can sustain, 

"What if thou, in gazing so. 

Should behold but only one 

Attribute, the veil undone — 

And that to which we dare to press 

Nearest, for its gentleness — 

Ay, His love ! 
How the deep ecstatic pain 
Thy being's strength would capture ! 
Without language for the rapture. 
Without music strong to come 
And set the adoration free, 
For ever, ever, wouldst thou be 
Amid the general chorus dumb, 

God-stricken to seraphic agony ! 

Or, brother, what if on thine eyes 
In vision bare should rise 
The life-fount whence His hand did 
gather 

With solitary force 
Our immortalities ! 
Straightway how thine own would 
wither. 

Falter like a human breath, 

And shrink into a point like death, 

By gazing on its source 1 



My words have imaged dread. 
Meekly hast thou bent thine head. 
And dropt thy wings in languishmcnt 
Overclouding foot and face ; 
As if God's throne were eminent 

Before thee, in the place. 
Yet not — not so, 

loving spirit and mee'ic, dost thou 

fulfil 
The Supreme Will, 
Not for obeisance but obedience, 
Give motion to thy wings. Depart from 
hence. 

The voice said ' Go.' 
Zerah. Beloved, I depart. 
His will is as a spirit within my spirit, 
A portion of the being I inherit. 
His will is mine obedience. I resemble 
A flame all undefiled though it trem- 
ble ; 

1 go and tremble. Love me, O be- 

loved ! 
O thou, who stronger art. 
And standest ever near the Infinite, 
Pale with the light of Light ! 
Love me, beloved ! me, more newly 
made. 

More feeble, more afraid ; 
And let me hear with mine thy pinions 

moved. 
As close and gentle as the loving are. 
That love being near, heaven may not 
seem so far. 
Ador. I am near thee, and I love 
thee. 
Where I loveless, from thee gone. 
Love is round, beneath, above thee, 
God, the omnipresent One. 
Spread the wing, and lift the brow. 
Well-beloved, what fearest thou V 
Zerah. I fear, I fear — 
Ador. What fear ? 

Zerah. The fear of earth. 

Ador. Of earth, the God-created and 
God -praised 
In the hour of birth ? 
Where every night, the moon in light 
Doth lead the waters, silver-faced ? 
Where every day, the sun doth lay 
A rapture to the heart of all 

The leafy and reeded pastoral. 
As if the joyous shout which burst 

From angel lips to see him first, 
Had left a silent echo in his ray ? 



THE SERAPHIM. 



Zerah. Of earth — the God-created 
and God-curst, 

Where man is, and the thorn. 

Where sun and moon have borne 

No light to souls forlorn. 
Where Eden's tree of life no more up- 

rears 
Its spiral leaves and fruitage, but in- 
stead 
The yew-tree bows its melancholy 

head. 
And all the undergrasses kills and 

seres. 
Ador. Of earth the weak. 
Made and unmade, 
Where men that faint, do strive for 

crowns that fade ? 
Where, having won the profit which they 

seek. 
They lie beside the sceptre and the 

gold 
With fleshless hands that cannot wield 

or hold. 
And the stars shine in their unwinking 

eyes ? 
Zerah. Of earth the bold : 

Where the blind matter wrings 
An awful potence out of impotence. 
Bowing the spiritual things 

To the things of sense. 
Where the human will replies 
With ay and no. 
Because the human pulse is quick or 

slow. 
Where Love succumbs to Change, 
With only his own memories, for re- 
venge. 
And the fearful mystery — 

Ador. Called Death ? 

Zerah. Nay, death is fearful — but 

who saith 
'To die,' is comprehensible. 
What's fearfuller, thou knowest well. 
Though the utterance be not for thee. 
Lest it blanch thy lips from glory — 
Ay ! the cursed thing that moved 
A shadow of ill, long times ago, 
Acroisour heaven's own shining floor. 
And when it vanished, some who were 
On thrones of holy empire there. 
Did reign — were seen — were — never 

more. 
Come nearer, O beloved ! 



Ador. I am near thee. Didst thou 
bear thee 
Ever to this earth ? 
Zerah. Before. 

When thrilling from His hand along 
Its lustrous path with spheric song. 
The earth was deathless, sorrowless. 
Unfearing, then, pure feet might 

press 
The grasses brightening with their 

feet. 
For God's own voice did mi.v its 

sound 
In a solemn confluence oft 
With the rivers' flowing round 
And the life-tree's waving soft. 
Beautiful new earth, and strange ! 
Ador. Hast thou seen '1 since — the 

change ? 
Zerah. Nay, or wherefore should 1 
fear 
To look upon it now ? 
I have beheld the ruined things 
Only in depicturings 
Of angels from an earthly mission, — 
Strong one, even upon thy brow, 
When, with task completed, given 
Back to us in that transition, 
I have beheld thee silent stand, 
Abstracted in the seraph band. 
Without a smile in heaven. 
Ador. Then thou wert not one of 
those 
Whom the loving Father chose 
In visionary pomp to sweep 
O'er Judaea's grassy places. 
O'er the shepherds and the sheep. 
Though thou art so tender? — 

dimming 
All the stars except one star. 
With their brighter kinder faces. 
And using heaven's own tune in 
hymning. 
While deep response from earth's own 
mountains ran, 
' Peace upon earth — goodwill to man.' 
Zerah. " Glory to God !" — I said 
Amen afar. 
And those who from <that earthly mis- 
sion are, 
Within mine ears have told 
That the seven everlasting Spirits did 
hold 



THE SERAPHIM. 



With such a sweet and prodigal con- 
straint, 
The meaning yet the mystery of the 

song, 
What time they sang it, on their natures 

strong ; 
That, gazing down on earth's dark stead- 
fastness, 
And speaking the new peace in promises, 
The love and pity made their voices faint 
Into the low and tender music, keeping 
The place in heaven, of what on earth is 
weeping, 
Ador. Peace upon earth ! Come down 

to it. 
ZeraJi. Ah me ! 

I hear thereof imcomprehendingly. 
Peace where the tempest — where the 

sighing is— 
And worship of the idol, 'stead of His? 
Ador. Yea, peace, where He is. 
Zerah. He ! 

Say it again. 

Ador. Where He is. 

Zerah. Can it be 

That earth retains a tree 
Whose leaves, like Eden foliage, can be 

swayed 
By the breathing of His voice, nor 
shrink and fade ? 
Ador. There is a tree ! — it hath no 
leaf nor root ; 
Upon it hangs a curse for all its fruit : 
Its shadow on His head is laid. 
For He, the crowned Son, 
Has left his crown and throne, 
Walks earth in Adam's clay. 
Eve's snake to bruise and slay — 
Zerah. Walks earth in clay ? 
Ador. And walking in the clay which 
He created. 
He through it shall touch death. 
What do I utter ? what, conceive ? Did 

breath 
Of demon howl it in a blasphemy? 
Or was it mine own voice, informed, 

dilated 
By the seven confluent Spirits? — Speak — 

answer me ! 
Who said man's victim was his deity ? 
Zerah. Beloved, beloved, the word 
came forth from thee. 
Thine eyes are rolling a tempestuous 
light 



Above, below, around. 
As putting thunder-questions without 
cloud. 

Reverberate without sound. 
To universal nature's depth and height. 
The tremor of an inexpressive thought 
Too self-amazed to shape itself aloud, 
O'erruns the awful curving of thy lips : 
And while thine hands are stretched 
above 
As newly they had caught 
Some lightning from the Ihrone — or 
showed the Lord 

Some retributive sword — 
Thy brows do alternate with wild eclipse 
And radiance — with contrasted wrath 
and love — 
As God had called thee to a seraph's 
part. 
With a man's quailing heart. 
Ador. O heart — O heart of man ! 
O ta'en from human clay. 
To be no seraph's but Jehovah's 
own ! 
Made holy in the taking. 
And yet unseparate 
From death's perpetual ban. 
And human feelings sad and passionate ! 
Still subject to the treacherous forsaking 
Of other hearts, and its own steadfast 

pain. 
O heart of man — of God ! which God 

hath ta'en 
From out the dust, with its humanity 
Mournful and weak yet innocent around 

it. 
And bade its many pulses beating lie 
Beside that incommunicable stir 
Of Deity wherewith He interwound it. 
O man ! and is thy nature so defiled. 
That all that holy Heart's devout law- 
keeping. 
And low pathetic beat in deserts wild. 
And gushings pitiful of tender weeping 
For traitors who consigned it to sucli 

woe — 
That all could cleanse thee not — without 

the flow 
Of blood— the life-blood — ///j — . an J 

streaming so ? 
O earth the thundercleft, windshaken ! 

where 
The louder voice of " blood and blood " i 
doth 



THE SERAPHIM. 



Hast thou an altar for this sacrifice? 
O heaven — O vacant throne ! 

crowned hierarchies, that wear your 

crown 

When His is put away ! 
Are ye unshamed, that ye cannot dim 
Your alien brightness to be liker Him, — 
Assume a human passion — and down- 
lay 
Your sweet secureness for congenial 

fears — 
And teach your cloudless ever-burning 
eyes 

The mystery of His tears? 

Zerah. I am strong, I am strong ! 

Were I never to see my heaven again, 

1 would wheel to earth like the tempest 

rain 
Which sweeps there with an exultant 

sound 
To lose its life as it reaches the ground. 
I am strong, I am strong ! 
Away from mine inward vision swim 
The shining seats of my heavenly 

birth— 
I see but His, I see but Him — 
The Maker's steps on His cruel earth. 
Will the bitter herbs of earth grow 

sweet 
■ To me, as trodden by His feet ? 
Will the vexed, accurst humanity. 
As worn by Him, begin to be 
A blessed, yea, a sacred thing, 
For love, and awe, and ministering ? 

I am strong, I am strong ! 
By our angel ken shall we survey 
His loving smile through his woeful 
clay? 
I am swift, I am strong — 
The love is bearing me along. 

Ador. One love is bearing us along. 



PART THE SECOND. 



Mid air, aliove Judaea. Ador and Zerali ; 
■jUlf apart from the visibl* Angelic Ho8ts. 



Ador. Beloved ! dost thou see ' 
Zcrah. Thee.— thee. 



Thy burning eyes already arc 
Grown wild and mourntul as a star 
Whose occupation is for aye 
To look upon the place of clay 
Whereon thou lookest now ! 
The crown is fainting on thy brow 
To the likeness of a cloud — 
The forehead's self a little bowed 
From its aspect high and holy. 
As it would in meekness meet 
Some seraphic melancholy, 
Thy very wings that lately flung 
An outline clear, do flicker here. 
And wear to each a shadow hung 

Dropped across thy feet. 
In these strange contrasting glooms 
Stagnant with the scent of tombs, 
Seraph faces, O my brother, 
Show awfully to one another. 
Ador. Dost thou see ? 
Zerah. Even so — I see 

Our empyreal company ; 

Alone the memory of their bright 
ness 
'Left in them, as in thee: 

The circle upon circle, tier on tier — ■ 
Piling earth's hemisphere 
With heavenly infiniteness; 
Above us and around. 

Straining the blue horizon like a bow : 

Their songful lips divorced from all 
sound ; 

A darkness gliding down their silvery 
glances, — 

Bowing their steadfast solemn counte- 
nances, 

A$ if they heard God speak, and could 
not glow. 
Ador. Look downward ! dost thou 

see? 
Zerah. And wouldst thou press this 
vision on my words ? 

Doth not earth speak enough 

Of change and of undoing. 

Without a seraph's witness ? Oceans 
rough 

With tempest, pastoral swards 

Displaced by fiery deserts, mountains 
ruing 

The bolt fallen yesterday. 

That shake their piney heads, as who 
would say 
' We are too beautiful for our decay-' 



THE SERAPHIM. 



Shall seraphs speak of these things ? Let 
alone 
Earth, to her earthly moan. 
Voice of all things. Is there no moan 

but hers ? 
Ador. Hearest thou the attestation 
Of the roused Universe, 
Like a desert lion shaking 
Dews of silence from its mane ? 
With an irrepressive passion 

Uprising at once, 
Rising up and forsaking 
Its solemn state in the circle of suns 
To attest the pain 
Of Him who stands (O patience sweet!) 
In his own hand-prints of creation. 

With human feet ? 
Voice of all things. Is there no moan 

but ours ? 
Zerah. Forms, Spaces, Motions wide, 

O meek, insensate things, 
O congregated matters ! who inherit 
Instead of vital powers. 
Impulsions, God-supplied ; 
Instead of influent spirit, 
A clear informing beauty — 
Instead of creature-duty. 
Submission calm as rest ! 
Lights, without feet or wings. 
In golden courses sliding ! 
Glooms, stagnantly subsiding. 
Whose lustrous heart away was prest 
Into the argent stars ! 
Ye crystal, firmamental bars. 
That hold the skyey waters free 
From tide or tempest's ecstasy ! 
Airs universal ! thunders lorn. 
That wait your lightnings in cloud- 
cave 
Hewn out by the winds ! O brave 
And subtle Elements ! the Holy 
Hath charged me by your voice 
with folly.* 
Enough, the mystic arrow leaves its 

wound. 
Return ye to your silences inborn. 
Or to your inarticulated sound ! 
Ador. Zerah. 
Zerah. Wilt thou rebuke? 
God hath rebuked me, brother. — I am 
weak. 

• " Ili.s iui-iil.s Me cliargBfl witli folly."— J,J, 



Ador. Zerah, my brother Zerah 1-- 
could I speak 
Of thee, 'twould be of love to thee. 

Zerah. Thy look 

Is fixed on earth, as mine upon thy face ! 
Where shall 1 seek Him ?— 

I have thrown 
One look upon earth — but one — 
Over the blue- mountain-lines. 
Over the forests of palms and pines ; 
Over the harvest-lands golden ; 
Over the valleys that fold in 
The gardens and vines — 

He is not there ! 
All these are unworthy 
His footsteps to bear ; 

Before which, bowing down 
I would fain quench the stars of my 
crown 

In the dark of the earthy 
Where shall I seek Him? 

No reply? 
Hath language left thy lips, to place 

Its vocal in thine eye ? 
Ador, Ador ! are we come 
To a double portent, that 
Dumb matter grows articulate 

And songful .spirits dumb ? 
Ador, Ador ! 
Ador. I constrain 

The pas.sion of my silence. None 
Of those places gazed upon 
Are gloomy enow to fit His pain. 
Unto Him whose forming word 
Gave to Nature flower and sward. 
She hath given back again. 
For the myrtle, the thorn ; 
For the sylvan calm, the human scorn. 
Still, still, reluctant Seraph, gaze beneathi 

There is a city 

Zerah. Temple and tower. 

Palace and purple would droop like a 
flower, 

(Or a cloud at our breath) 
If He neared in His state 
The outermost gate. 
Ador. Ah me, not so 

In the .state of a King, did the victim go ! 
And Thou who hangest mute of speech 
'Twixt heaven and earth, with fore- 
head j'et 

Stained by the bloody sweat . 

God ! man ! Thou hast foregone thy 
throne in each ! 



THE SERAPHIM. 



fA-ralt. Thine eyes behold Him ? 

Ador. Yea, below. 

'I'rack the gazing of mine eyes, 

Naming God within thine heart 

That its weakness may depart 

And the vision rise. 
Seest thou yet, beloved ? 
Zeyah. I see 

Beyond the city, crosses three. 
And mortals three that hang thereon, 
'Ghast and silent to the sun : 
And round them blacken and welter 
and press 
Staring multitudes, whose father 
Adam was — whose brows are dark 
With his Cain's corroded mark ; 
Who curse with looks. Nay — let 

me rather 
Turn unto the wilderness. 
Adar. Turn not. God dwells with 

men. 
Zerah. Above 

He dwells with angels ; and they love. 
Cm these love ? With the living's pride 
They stare at those who die, — who hang 
In their sight and die. They bear the 

streak 
Of the crosses' shadow, black not wide. 
To fall on their heads, as it swerves a.side 
When the victims' pang 
Makes the dry wood creak, 
Ador. The cross — the cross ! 
Zerah. A woman kneels 

The mid cross under — 
With white lips asunder. 
And motion on each : 
They throb, as she feels. 
With a spasm, not a speech ; 
And her lids, close as sleep. 
Are less calm — for the eyes 
Have made room there to weep 
Drop on drop — 
j^dor. Weep ? Weep blood. 

All women, all men I 
He sweated it, He, 
For your pale womanhood 
And base manhood. Agree, 
That these water-tears, then, 
Are vain, mocking like laughter ! 
Weep blood !— Shall the flood 
Of salt curses, whose foam is the dark- 
ness, on roll 
E'orward, on. from the strand of the 
storm-beaten years. 



And back from the rocks of the horrid 

hereafter. 
And up, in a coil, from the present's 

wrath-spring. 
Yea, down from the windows of Hea- 
ven opening, — • 
Deep calling to deep as they meet on 
His soul, — 

And men weep only tears? 
Zerah. Little drops in the lapse ! 
And yet, Ador, perhaps 
It is all that they can. 
Tears ! the lovingest man 
Has no better bestowed 
Upon man. 
Ador. Nor on God. 

Zerah. Do all givers need gifts ? 
If the Giver said 'Give,' the first motion 

would slay 
Our Immortals ; the echo would ruin 

away 
The same worlds which he made. Why, 
what angel uplifts 

Such a music, so clear. 
It may seem in God's car 
Worth more than a woman's hoarse 

weeping ? And thus. 
Pity tender as tears, I above thee would 

speak. 
Thou woman that weepest 1 weep un- 

scorned of us ! 
I, the tearless and pure, am but loving 
and weak. 
Ador. Speak low, my brother, low, — 
and not of love. 
Or human or angelic ! Rather stand 
Before the throne of that Supreme above. 
In whose infinitude the secrecies 
Of thine own being lie hid, and lift thine 

hand 
Exultant, saying 'Lord God 1 am wise!' — 
Than utter here, ' 1 love.' 

Zerah. And yet thine eyes 

Do utter it. They melt in tender light — 
The tears of Heaven. 

Ador. Of Heaven. Ah mc 1 

Zerah. Ador! 

Ador. < Say on. 

Zerah. The crucified are three. 

Beloved, they are unlike. 
Ador. Unlike. 

Zerah. For one 

Is as a man who sinned, and still 
Doth wear the wicked will — 



THE SERAPHIM. 



The hard malign life-energy. 
Tossed outward, in the parting soul's 

disdain. 
On brow and lip that cannot change 
again. 
Adar. And one — 
Zerah. Has also sinned. 

And yet, (O marvel !) doth the spirit-wind 
Blow white those waters ?— Death upon 
his face 
Is rather shine than shade, 
A tender shine by looks beloved made. 
He seemeth dying in a quiet place, 
And less by iron wounds in hands and 

feet 
Than heart-broke by new joy too sud- 
den and sweet. 
Ador. And one! — 
Zerah. And ONE — 

Ador. Why dost thou pause ? 

Zerah. God ! God ! 

Spirit of my spirit ! who movest 
Through seraph veins in burning deity. 
To light the quenchless pulses ! — 

Ador. ■ But hast trod 

The depth of love in thy peculiar nature ; 
And not in any Thou hast made and 

lovest 
In narrow seraph hearts .' — 

Zerah. Above, Creator! 

Within, upholder! 

Ador. And below, below, 

The creature's and the upholden's saci i- 
fice! 

2^rah. Why do I pause ?■ 

Ador. There is a silentness 

That answers thee enow ; 
That, like a brazen sound 
Excluding others, doth ensheathe us 

round : 
Hear it ! It is not from the visible skies 

Though they are very still, 
Unconscious that their own dropped 

dews express 

The light of heaven on every earthly hill. 

It is not from the hills; though calm 

and bare 

They, since the first creation, 

Tlirough midnight clouci or morning's 

glittering air 
Or the deep deluge blindness, toward 

the place 
Whence thrilled the mystic word's crea- 
tive grace. 



And whence again shall come 
The word that uncreates ; 
Have lift their brows in voiceless expec- 
tation. 
It is not froni the places that entomb 
Man's dead — though common Silence 

there dilates 
Her soul to grand proportions, worthily 
To fill life's vacant room. 
Not there — not there ! 
Not yet within those chambers lieth He, 
A dead One in His living world ! His 

south 
And west winds blowing over earth and 

sea ; 
And not a breath on that creating 
Mouth ! 
But now, — a silence keeps 
(Not death's, nor sleep's) 
The lips whose whispered word 
Might roll the thunders round reverbrat- 
ed. 
Silent art Thou, O my Lord, 
Bowing down Thy stricken head ! 
Fearest Thou, a groan of thine 
Would make the pulse of thy creation 

fail 
As thine own pulse ? — would rend the 

veil 
Of visible things, and let the flood 
Of the unseen Light, the essential God, 
Rush in to whelm the undivine? — 
Thy silence, to my thinking, is as dread! 
Zerah. i) silence ! 
Ador. Doth it say to thee the name. 
Slow-learning Seraph? 

Zerah. I have learnt. 

Ador. The flame 

Perishes in thine eyes. 

Zerah. He opened His — 

And looked. I cannot bear — 
Ador. Their agony? 

Zerah. Their love. God's depth is ia 
them. 

From his brows 
White, terrible in meekiwss, didst thou 
see 

The uplifted eyes unclose ? 
He is God, seraph ! Look no more on 

me, 
O God ; I am not God. 

Ador. The loving is 

Sublimed within theni by the sorrowful. 
In heaven we could susttiin them. 



THE SERAPHIM. 



Zerah. Heaven is dull. 

Mine Ador, to man's earth. The light 
that burns 
In fluent, refluent motion. 
Along the crystal ocean ; 
The springing of the golden harps be- 
tween 
The bowery wings, in fountains of sweet 

sound ; 
The winding, wandering masic that re- 
turns 

Upon itself, exultingly self-bound 
In the great spheric round 
Of everlasting praises : 
The God-thoughts in our midst that in- 
tervene, 
Visibly flashing from the supreme throne. 

Full in seraphic faces. 
Till each astonishes the other, grown 
More beautiful with worship and de- 
light ! 
My heaven ! my home of heaven ! my 

infinite 
Heaven-choirs! what are ye to this 

dust and death. 
This cloud, this cold, these tears, this 

failing breath. 
Where God's immortal love now issueth 
In this man's woe ? 
Ador. His eyes are very deep yet 

calm — 
Zerah. No more 

On ;«^ Jehovah-man — 

Ador. Calm-deep. They show 

A passion which is tranquil. They are 

seeing 
No earth, no heaven : no men that slay 
and curse — 
No seraphs that adore. 
Their gaze is on the invisible, the 

dread — 
The things we cannot view or think or 

speak, 
Becaase we arc too happy, or too weak ; 
The sea of ill, for which the universe 
With all its piled space, can find no 

shore. 
With all its life, no living foot to tread. 
But He, accomplished in Jehovah-being, 
Sustains the gaze adown, 
Conceives the vast despair, 
And feels the billowy griefs come up to 
drown. 



Nor fears, nor faints, nor fails till all be 
finished. 
Zerah. Thus, do I find thee thus? My 
undiminished 
And undiminishable God! — My God! 
The echoes are still tremulous along 
The heavenly mountains, of the latest 

song 
Thy manifested glory swept abroad 
In rushing past our lips ! They echo aye 

" Creator, Thou art strong ! — 
Creator, Thou art blessed over all." 
By what new utterance shall I now re- 
call, 
Unteaching the heaven-echoes ? Dare I 

say, 
" Creator, Thou art feebler than Thy 

work ! 
Creator, Thou art sadder than thy crea- 
ture ! 
A worm, and not a man. 
Yea, no worm — but a curse ?" 
I dare not, so, mine heavenly phrase re- 
verse. 
Albeit the piercing thorn and thistle-fork 

(Whose seed disordered ran 
From Eve's hand trembling when the 

curse did reach her) 
Be garnered darklier in thy soul ! the 

rod 
That smites Thee never blossoming, and 

Thou, 
Grief-bearer for thy world, with un- 
kinged brow — 
I leave to men their song of Ichabod ! 
I have an angel-tongue — I know but 
praise. 
Ador. Hereafter shall the blood- 
bought captives raise 
The passion -song of blood. 

Zerah. And ive, extend 

Our holy vacant hands towards the 

Throne, 
Crying " We haVe no music !" 

Ador. Rather, blend 

" Both musics into one ! 
The sanctities and sanctified above 
Shall each to each, with« lifted looks se- 
rene, 
Their shining faces lean. 
And mix the adoring breath 
And breathe the full thanksgiving. 

Zerah. But the love- 

The love, mine Ador ! 



34 



THE SERAPHIM 



Acicr ^o we love not 1 

Zera'h. . ^^^Z . 

But not as man shall ! not with life for 

New-throbbing through the startled be- 
ing ! not 
With strange astonished smiles, tnat 

ever may . 

Gush passionate Uke tears, and fill their 
place : . r 

Nor yet with speechless memories ot 

what . , 

Earth's winters were, enverdunng the 
green 
Of every heavenly palm 
Whose windless, shadeless calm 
Moves only at the breath of the Unseen. 
Oh, not with this blood on us— and this 

face, — . , 

Still, haply, pale with sorrow that it bore 
In our behalf, and tender evermore 
With nature all our own, upon us gaz- 

Nor yet^vlth these forgiving hands up- 
raising 
Their unreproachful wounds, alone to 

Alas, CreSor ! shall we love Thee less 
Than mortals shall ? , . , 

Ador. Amen ! so let it be. 

We love in our proportion— to the bound 
Thine Infinite our finite, set around. 
And that is finitely,— Thou, infinite 
And worthy infinite love! And our 

delight 
Is watching the dear love poured out to 

Thee, ^, , , 

From ever fuller chalice. Blessed they 

Who love Thee more than we do! 

blessed we, . , , „ , 

Viewing that love which shall exceed 

even this, , i v r 

And winning in the sight, a double bhss. 
For all so lost in love's supremacy ! 
The bliss is better. Only on the sad 

Cold earth there are who say 
It seemeth better to be great than glad. 
The bliss is better! Love Him more, 
O man. 
Than sinless seraphs can. 
Zerah. Yea, love Him more. 
Voices of the angelic viulUtude 
Yea, more ! 



Ador. The loving word 

Is caught by those from whom we stand 

apart : , . , 

For Silence hath no deepness in her 

Where love's low name low breathed 

would not be heard 
Bv angels, clear as thunder. 

An<relic voices. Love him more ! 

Adm-. Sweet voices, swooning o er 

The music which ye make ! 

Albeit to love there were not ever given 

A mournful sound when uttered out 

of heaven, , , ^ , i 

That angel-sadness ye would fitly take. 
Of love, be silent now ! we gaze adown 
Upon the incarnate Love who wears 
no crown. . 

Zerah. No crown ! the woe instead 
Is heavy on His head. 
Pressing inward on His brain. 
With a hot and clinging pam. 
Till all tears are prest away. 
And clear and calm His vision may 
Peruse the black abyss. 
No rod, no sceptre is 
Holden in His fingers pale : 
They close instead upon the nail. 

Concealing the sharp dole- 
Never stirring to put by 
1 he fair hair peaked w t.i blood. 
Drooping forward from the rood 

Helplessly— heavily— 
On the cheek that waxeth colder. 
Whiter ever,— and the shoulder 
Where the government was laid. 
His glory made the Heavens afraid; . 
Will He not unearth this cross from itsi 

hole? 
His pity makes His piteous state : 
Will He be un compassionate 
Alone to his proper soul ? 
Yea, will He not lift up 
His lips from the bitter cup. 
His brows from the dreary weight, 
His hands from the clenching 
cross — 
Crying * My Father, give to me 
Again the joy I had with Thee 
Or ere this earth was made tor loss '. 
No stir- no sound — 
The love and woe being interwound 
He cleaveth to tha woe ; 



THE SERAPHIM. 



And putteth forth heaven's strength be- 
low — 

To bear. 
Ador. And that creates His anguish 
now. 
Which made His glory there. 
Zerah. Shall it indeed be so ? 
Awake, thou Earth ! behold ! 
Thou, uttered forth of old 
In all thy life-emotion, 
In all thy vernal noises ; 
In the rollings of thine ocean, 
Leaping founts, and rivers run- 
ning ; 
In thy woods' prophetic heaving 
Ere the rains a stroke have given ; 
In thy winds' exultant voices 
When they feel the hills anear : 
In the firmamental sunning, 
And the tempest which rejoices 
Thy full heart with an awful cheer ! 

Thou, uttered forth of old 

And with all thy musics, rolled 

In a breath abroad 

By the breathing God ! 

Awake ! He is here ! behold ! 

Even thou — 

Beseems it good 
To thy vaeant vision dim, 
That the deathly ruin should. 
For thy sake, encompass Him ? 
That the Master-word should lie 
A mere silence — while His own, 

Processive harmony — 
The faintest echo ofHis lightest tone 
;S sweeping in a choral triumph by ? 
Awake 1 emit a cry ! 
And say, albeit used 
From Adam's ancient years 
To falls of acrid tears. 
To frequent sighs unloosed. 
Caught back to press again 
On bosoms zoned with pain — 
To corses still and sullen 
The shine and music dulling 
With closed eyes and ears 
That nothing sweet can enter— 
Commoving thee no less 
With that forced quietness. 
Than the earthquake in thy cen- 
tre— 
Thou hast not learnt to bear 
This new divine despair ! 
These tears that sink into thee. 



These dying eyes that view thee. 
This dropping blood from lifted 

rood. 
They darken and undo thee ! 
'I'hou canst not, presently, sustain this 
corse ! 

Cry, cry, thou hast not force ! 
Cry, thou wouldst fainer keep 
Thy hopeless charnels deep — 
Thyself a general tomb — 
Where the first and second Death 
Sit gazing face to face 
And mar each other's breath. 
While silent bones through all the place, 
'Neath sun and moon do faintly glisten. 

And seem to lie and listen 
For the tramp of the coming Doom. 

Is it not meet 
That they who erst the Eden fruit did 
eat. 

Should champ the ashes ? 
That they who wrapt them in the thun- 
der-c'ojd, 

Should wear it as a shroud. 
Perishing by its flashes? 
That they who vexed the lion, should 
be rent? 

Cry, cry — ' I will sustain my punish- 
ment. 
The sin being mine ! but take away 

from me 
This visioned Dread — this Man — 
this Deity.' 
The Earth. I have groaned — I have 
travailed — 
I am weary — 
I am blind with mine own grief, and 

cannot see, 
As clear-eyed angels can. His agony : 
And what I see I also can sustain. 
Because His power protects me from 

His pain. 
I have groaned — I have travailed — I 

am dreary. 
Hearkening the thick sobs of my child- 
ren's heart : 

And can I say 'Depart' 
To that Atoner making calm and free ? 

Am I a God as He, 
To lay down peace and power as will- 
ingly ? 

Ador. He looked for some to pity. 
There is none. 
All pity is within Ilim, and not for Him ; 



THE SERAPHIM. 



His earth is iron under Him, and o'er 
Him 

His skies are brass : 
His seraphs cry 'Alas' 
With hallelujah voice that cannot weep ; 
And man, for whom the dreadful work 

is done 

Scornful voices fro»i the Earth. If 

verily this be the Eternal's son — 
Ador. Thou hearest : — man is grate- 
ful! 
Zerah. Can I hear. 

Nor darken into man nor cease for ever 
My seraph-smile to wear ? 

Was it for such, 
It pleased Him to overleap 
His glory with His love, and sever 
From the God-light and the throne 
And all angels bowing down. 
From whom His every look did 

touch 
New notes of joy from the unworn 

string 
Of an eternal worshipping ! 
For such He left His heaven ? 
There, though never bought by 
blood 
And tears, we gave Him gratitude ! 
We loved Him there, though un- 
forgiven ! 
Ador. The light is riven 
Above, around. 
And down in lurid fragments flung. 
That catch the mountain-peak and 
stream 

With momentary gleam. 
Then perish in the water and the ground. 
River and waterfall. 
Forest and wilderness, 
Mountain and city, are together wrung 
Into one shape, and that is shapeless- 
ness ; 

The darkness stands for all. 
Zerah. The pathos hath the day un- 
done : 
The death-look of His eyes 
Hath ovei'come the sun. 
And made it sicken in its narrow skies. 
Ador. Is it to death ? He dieth. 
Zerah. Through the dark. 

He still, He only, is discerniole — 
The naked hands and feet transfixed 
stark. 



The countenance of patient angukh 
white. 

Do make themselves a light 
More dreadful than the glooms which 

round them dwell. 
And therein do they shine. 

Ador. God ! Father-God ! 

Perpetual Radiance on the radiant 

throne ! 
Uplift the lids of inward Deity, 
Flashing abroad 
Thy burning infinite ! 
Light up this dark, where there is 

nought to see. 
Except the unimagined agony 
Upon the sinless forehead of the Son. 
Zerah. God, tarry not! Behold, 
enow 
Hath He wandered as a stranger. 
Sorrowed as a victim. Thou 
Appear for Him, O Father ! 
Appear for Him, Avenger ! 
Appear for Him, just One and holy One, 

For He is holy and just ! 
At once the darkness and dishonor 

rather 
To the ragged jaws of hungry chaos 
rake. 
And hurl aback to ancient dust 
These mortals that make blasphemies 
With their made breath 1 this earth 
and skies 
That only grow a little dim. 
Seeing their curse on Him 1 
But Him, of all forsaken. 
Of creature and of brother. 
Never wilt Thou forsake ! 
Thy living and Thy loving cannot 

slacken 
Their firm essential hold upon each 

other — 
And well Thou dost remember how His 

part 
Was still to lie upon Thy breast, and be 
Partaker of the light that dwelt in Thee 

Ere sun or seraph shone ; 
And how while silence trembled round 

the throne. 
Thou countedst by the beatings of His 

heart. 
The moments of Thine own eternity 1 

Awaken, 
O right Hand with the lightnings 1 



THE SERAPHIM. 



Again gather 
^is glory to thy glory ! What estrang- 

er — 
vVhat ill supreme in evil, can be thrust 
Between the faithful Father and the 
'Son? 

Appear for Him, O Father I 
Appear for Him, Avenger I 
\ppear for Him, just One and holy 
One! 

For He is holy and just. 
Ador. Thy face, upturned toward 
the throne, is dark — 
Thou hast no answer, Zerah. 

Zerah. No reply, 

J unforsaking Father 1 — 

Ador. Hark I 

'nstead of dowftward voice, a cry 
Is uttered from beneath 1 
Zerah. And by a sharper sound than 
death. 

Mine immortality is riven. 
The heavy darkness which doth tent 

the sky, 
F'loats backward as by a sudden wind- 
But I see no light behind : 
But I feel the farthest stars are all 
Stricken and shaken, 
\nd I know a shadow sad and broad. 

Doth fall— doth fall 
3n our vacant thrones in heaven. 
Voice /rom the Cross. Mv God, my 
God, 
^Vhv hast Thoi; me forsaken? 
The Earth. Ah me, ah me, ah me I 
the dreadful why ! 
Vly sin is. on Thee, sinless One I Thou 

art 
jod-orphaned, for my burden on Thy 

head. 
Dark sin ! white innocence I endurance 

dread ! 
Be still, within your shrouds, my buried 

dead — 
S'or work with this quick horror round 
mine heart 1 
Zerah. He hath forsaken ///;« / I 

perish — 
Ador. Hold 

Jpon His name ! We perish not. Of 
old 

His will 

Zerah. I seek His will. Seek, 
Seraphim I 



My God, my God ! whe^e is it ? Doth 

that curse 
Reverberate spare us, seraph or uni- 
verse ? 

He hath forsaken Him. 
Ador, He cannot fail. 
Angel voices. We faint — we droop — 
Our love doth tremble like fear — 
Voices of Fallen Angels from the 
Earth. Do we prevail ? 
Or are we lost?— Hath not the ill we 
did 

Been heretofore our good ? 
Is it not ill that One, all sinless, should 
Hang heavy with all curses on a cross? 
Nathless, that cry! — with huddled 

faces hid 
Within the empty graves which men 

did scoop 
To hold more damned dead, we shud- 
der through 

What shall exalt us or undo, — 
Our triumph, or— our loss. 
Voice from the Cross. It is finished. 
Zerah. Hark, again ! 

Like a victor, speaks the Slain — 

Angel voices. Finished be the trem- 
bling vain ! 
Ador. Upward, like a well-loved Son, 
Looketh He, the orphaned One — 
Angel voices. Finished is the mystic 

pain ! 
Voices of Fallen Angels. His deathly 
forehead at the word, 

Gleameth like a seraph sword. 
Angel voices. Finished is the demon 

reign ! 
Ador. His breath, as living God, 
createth — 
His breath, as dying man, complet- 
eth. 
Angel voices. Finished work His 

hands sastain ! 
The Earth. In mine ancient sepul- 
chres 

Where my kings and prophets 

freeze, 
Adam dead four tl^ousand j'ears, 
Unwakened by the universe's 
Everlasting moan. 
Aye his ghastly silence, mocking — 
Unwakened by nis children's knock- 
ing 
At his old sepuicnral stone — 



s8 



THE SERAPHIM. 



' Adam, Adam I all this curse is 

Thine and on us yet !' 

Unwakened by the ceaseless tears 
Wherewith they made his cere- 
ment wet — 
• Adam, must thy curse remain V — 
Starts with sudden life, and hears 
Through the slow dripping of the cav- 
erned eaves, — 

Angel voices. Finished is his bane I 
Voice from the Cross. Father! my 

SPIRIT TO THINE HANDS IS GIVEN 1 

Ador. Hear the wailing winds that 
be 
By wings of unclean Spirits made ! 

They, in that last look, surveyed 
The love they lost in losing heaven. 

And passionately flee, 
With a desolate cry that cleaves 
The natural storms — though they are 

lifting 
God's strong cedar-roots like leaves ; 
And the earthquake and the thunder. 
Neither keeping neither under. 
Roar and hurtle through the glooms, — 
And a few pale stars are drifting 
Past the Dark, to disappear. 
What time, from the splitting tombs, 
Gleamingly the Dead arise. 
Viewing with their death-calmned eyes. 
The elemental strategies. 
To witness, victory is the Lord's ! 
Hear the wail o' the spirits ! hear. 

Zerah. I hear alone the memory of 
His words. 



THE EPILOGUE. 



My song is done I 

My voice that long hath faltered shall 
be still. 

The mystic darkness drops from Cal- 
vary's hill 

Into the common light of this day's sun. 



I see no more Thy cross, O holy Slain ! 
I hear no more the horror and the coil 



Of the great world's turmoil, 
Feeling thy countenance too still, — noj 

yell 
Of demons sweeping past it to theifi 

prison. 
The skies, that turned to darkness with 
Thy pain. 

Make now a summer's day, — 
And on my changed ear, that sabbath: 
bell 
Records how Christ is risen. 



And I— ah I what am I 
To counterfeit, with faculty earth-dark-' 

ened 

Seraphic brows of light 
And seraph language never used noti 

hearkened ? 
Ah me ! what word that Seraphs say, 

could come 
From mouth so used to sighs — so sooni 

to lie 
Sightless, because then breathless, ia^ 

the tomb ? 



Bright ministers of God and grace !— of > 

grace 
Because of God ! — whether ye bow.> 

adown 
In your own heaven, before the living; 

face 
Of Him who died, and deathless wears 

the crown — 
Or whether at this hour, ye haply are 
Anear, around me, hiding in the night 
Of this permitted ignorance your light,! 

This feeblene^s to spare, — 
Forgive me, that mine earthly heart 

should dare 
Shape images of imincarnate spirits. 
And lay upon their burning lips a 

thought 
Cold with the weeping which mine earth 

inherits ; 
And though ye find in such hoarse music 

wrought 
To copy yours, a cadence all the while 
Of sin and sorrow — only pitying smile I'- 
ve know to pity, well. 



THE POETS FOJV. 



[ too may haply smile another day 
At the far recollection of this lay, 
When God may call me in your midst 

to dwell, 
To hear your most sweet masic's miracle 
And see your wondrous faces. May it 

be. 
For His remembered sake, the Slain on 

rood. 
Who rolled His earthly garment red in 

blood 
(Treading the wine-press) that the weak, 

like me, 
Before His heavenly throne should walk 

in white. 



THE POET'S VOW. 



PART THE FIRST. 



SHOWING WHEREFORE THE VOW WAS 

MADE. 



Eve is a twofold mystery — 
The stillness Earth doth keep ; 

The motion wherewith human hearts 
Do each to either leap. 

As if all souls between the poles. 
Felt ' Parting comes in sleep.' 



The rowers lift their oars to view 

Each other in the sea ; 
The landsmen watch the rocking boats. 

In a pleasant company ; 
While up the hill go gladlier still 

Dear friends by two and three. 



The peasant's wife hath looked without 
Her cottage door and smiled ; 

For there the peasant drops his spade 
To clasp his youngest child 

Which hath no speech, but its hands 
can reach 
And stroke his forehead mild. 



A poet sate that eventide 

Within his hall alone. 
As silent as its ancient lords 

In the coffined place of stone -, 
When the bat hath shrunk from the 
praying monk— 

And the praying monk is gone. 



Nor wore the dead a stiller face 
Beneath the cerement's roll : 

His lips refusing out in words 
Their mystic thoughts to dole, 

His steadfast eye burnt inwardly, 
As burning out his soul. 



You would not think that brow could 
e'er 

Ungentle moods express, 
Yet seemed it, in this troubled world. 

Too calm for gendeness : 
When the very star, that shines from far. 

Shines trembling ne'ertheless. 



It lacked— all need— the softening light 

Which other brows supply : 
We should conjoin the scathed trunks 

Of our humanity. 
That each leafless spray entwining may 

Look softer 'gainst the sky. 



None gazed within the poet's face — 

The poet gazed in none : 
He threw a lonely shadow straight 

Before the moon and smu, 
Affronting nature's / eaven-dwelling 
creatures. 

With wrong to nature done. 



Because tliis poet daringly. 

The nature at his heart. 
And that quick tune along his veins 

He could not change by art. 
Had vowed his blood of brotherhood 

To a stagnant place apart. 



THE POETS VOW. 



He did not vow in fear, or wrath. 

Or grief's fantastic whim ; 
But, weights and shows of sensual 
things 

Too closely crossing him. 
On his soul's eyelid the pressure slid 

And made its vision dim. 



And darkening in the dark he strove 
'Twixt earth and sun and sky, 

To lose in shadow, wave and cloud. 
His brother's haunting cry. 

The winds were welcome as they swept : 

God's five-day work he would accept, 
But let the rest go by. 



He cried — ' O touching, patient Earth, 

That weepest in thy glee. 
Whom God created very good. 

And very mournful, we ! 
Thy voice of moan doth reach Hi 
throne. 

As Abel's rose from thee. 



' Poor crystal sky, with stars astray ; 

Mad winds, that howling go 
From east to west ; perplexed seas, 

That stagger from their blow ! 
O motion wild 1 O wave defiled I 

Our curse hath made you so. 



* We ! and our curse I Do /partake 

The desiccating sin ? 
Have /the apple at my lips? 

The money-lust within i 
Do / human stand with the wounding 
hand. 

To the blasting heart akin ? 



• Thou solemn pathos of all things, 
For solemn pomp designed ! 

Behold, submissive to your cause. 
An holy wrath I find. 

And, for your sake, the bondage break, 
That knits me to my kind. 



' Hear me forswear man's sympathies. 
His pleasant yea and no — 

His riot on the piteous earth 
Whereon his thistles grow ! 

His changing love — with stars above 1 
His pride — with graves below ! 



' Hear me forswear his roof by night, 

His bread and salt by day. 
His talkings at the wood-fire hearth. 

His greetings by the way. 
His answering looks, his systemed books. 

All man, for aye and aye. 



' That so my purged, once human heart. 

From all the human rent. 
May gather strength to pledge and drink 

Your wine of wcndermert. 
While you pardon mc, all blessingly. 

The woe mine Adam sent. 



' And I shall feel your unseen looks 
Innumerous, constant, deep. 

And soft as haunted Adam once, 
I'hough sadder, round me creep ; 

As slumbering men have mystic ken 
Of watchers on their sleep. 



'And ever, when I lift my brow 

At evening to the sun. 
No voice of woman or of child 

Recording ' Day is done,' 
Your silence shall a love express 

More deep than such an one I' 



PART THE SECOND. 



SHOWING TO WHOM THE VOW WAS DE- 
CLARED. 



The poet's vow was inly sworn — 

The poet's vow was told : 
He shared among his crowding friends 



THE POF/rS VOW. 



3« 



The silver and the gold ; 
They clasping bland his gift, — his hand 
In a somewhat slacker liold. 



They wended forth, the crowding 
friends, 

With farewells smooth and kind — 
They wended forth, the solaced friends, 

And left but twain behind : 
One loved him true as brothers do, 

And one was Rosalind. 



He said — 'My friends have wended 
forth 

With farewells smooth and kind. 
Mine oldest friend, my plighted bride. 

Ye need not stay behind. 
Friend, wed my fair bride for my sake, 
And let my lands ancestral make 

A dower for Rosalind. 



* And when beside your wassail board 

Ye bless your social lot, 
I charge you that the giver be 

In all his gifts forgot ! 
Or alone of all his words recall 

The last, — Lament me not.' 



She looked upon him silently. 
With her large, doubting eyes, 

Like a child that never knew but love, 
Whom words of wrath surprise ; 

Till the rose did break from either cheek. 
And the sudden tears did rise. 



She looked upon him mournfully. 
While her large eyes were grown 

Yet larger with the steady tears ; 
Till, all his purpose known, 

She turned slow, as she would go — 
The tears were shaken down. 



She turned slow, as she would go. 

Then quickly turned again ; 
And gazing in his face to seek 



Some little touch of pain — 
'I thought,' she said, — but shook her 
head, — 
She tried that speech in vain. 



' I thought — but I am half a child, 

And very sage art thou — 
The teachings of the heaven and earth 

Did keep us soft and low. 
They have drawn vty tears in early 
years. 

Or ere I wept— as now. 



' But now that in thy face I read 

Their cruel homily, 
Before their beauty I would faitt 

Untouched, unsoftened be, — 
If / mdeed could look on even 
The senseless, loveless earth and heaven 

As thou, canst look on 7ne, 



'And couldest thou as calmly view 

Thy childhood's far abode. 
Where little feet kept time with thine 

Along the dewy sod ? 
And thy mother's look from holy book 

Rose, like a thought of God ? 



'O brother, — called so, ere her last 
Betrothing words were said ! 

O fellow-watcher in her room, 
With hashed %'olce and tread ! 

Rememberest thou how, hand in hand, 

O friend, O lover, we did stand. 
And knew that she was dead ? 



' I will not live Sir Roland's bride, — 
That dower I will not hold ! 

I tread below my feet that go. 
These parchments bought and sold. 

The tears I weep aretmine to keep. 
And worthier than thy gold.' 



The poet and Sir Roland stood 
Alone, each turned to each ; 



THE POET'S VOIV, 



Till Roland brake the silence left 
By that soft-throbbing speech — 

'Poor heart! ' he cried, ' it vainly tried 
The distant heart to reach ! 



And thou, O distant, sinful heart, 

That chinbest up so high. 
To wrap and blind thee with the snows 

That cause to dream and die— 
What blessing can from lips of man, 

Approach thee with his sigh ? 



' Ay I what, from earth— create for man, 

And moanmg in his moan ? 
Ay ! what from stars — revealed to man, 

And man-named, one by one? 
Ay, more ! what blessing can be given. 
Where the Spirits seven do show in 
heaven, 

A MAN upon the throne ? — 



• A man on earth he wandered once, 

All meek and undefiled : 
And those who loved Him said 'He 
wept ' — 
None ever said He smiled ; 
Yet there might have been a smile un- 
seen. 
When He bowed his blessed face, I 
ween, 
To bless that happy child. 



' And now he pleadeth up in heaven 

For our humanities. 
Till the ruddy light on seraph's wings 

In pale emotion dies. 
They can better bear his Godhead's 
glare. 

Than the pathos of his eyes. 

xvni. 
' I will go pray our God to-day 

To teach thee how to scan 
His work divine for human use 

Since earth on axle ran ! 
To teach thee to discern as plain 
His grief divine — the blood-drop's stain 
He left there, man for man. 



XIX. 

' So, for the blood's sake, shed by Him, 

Whom angels God declare, 
Tears, like it, moist and warm with love, 

Thy reverent eyes shall wear. 
To see i' the face of Adam's race 

Ihe nature God doth share.' 



• 1 heard,' the poet said, ' thy voice 

As dimly as thy breath ! 
The sound was like the noise of life 

To one anear his death ; 
Or of waves that fail to stir the pale 

Sere leaf they roll beneath. 

XXI. 

' And still between the sound and me 

White creatures like a mist 
Did interfloat confusedly, — 

Mysterious shapes untwist I 
Across my heart and across my brow 
I felt them droop like wreaths of snow 

To still the pulse they kist. 

XXII. 

• The castle and the lands are thine- 

The poor's — it shall be done : 
Go, man ; to love 1 I go to hve 

In Courland hall, alone. 
The bats along the ceilings cling. 
The lizards in the floor do run. 
And storms and years have worn and 

reft 
The stain by human builders left 
In working at the stone 1 ' 



PART THE THIRD. 

SHOWING HOW THE VOW WAS KEPT. 



He dwelt alone, and, sun and moon, 
Were witness that he made 

Rejection of his humanness 
Until they seemed to fade. 

His face did so ; for he did grow 
Of his own soul afraid. 



THE POETS VOW. 



33 



The self-poised God may dwell alone 
With inward glorying ; 

But God's chief angel waiteth for 
A brother's voice, to sing. 

And a lonely creature of sinful nature- 
It is an awful thing. 



An awful thing that feared itself 
While many years did roll, 

A lonely man, a feeble man, 
A part beneath the whole — 

He bore by day, he bore by night 

That pressure of God's infinite 
Upon his finite soul. 



The poet at his lattice sate, 

Ani downward looked he : 
Three Christians wended by to prayers, 

With mute ones in their ee. 
Each turned above a face of love, 

And called him to the far chapelle 
With voice more tuneful than its bell — 

But still they wended three. 



There journeyed by a bridal pomp, 
A bridegroom and his dame : 

She speaketh low for happiness, 
She blusheth red for shame, 

But never a tone of benison 
From out the lattice came. 



A little child with inward song, 

No louder noise to dare, 
Stood near the wall to see at play 

The lizards green and rare- 
Unblessed the while for his childish 
smile 

Which cometh unaware. 



PART THE FOURTH. 

SHOWING HOW ROSALIND FARED BY THE 
KEEPING OF THE VOW. 



In detuh-sheets lieth Rosalind, 
As white and still as they ; 



And the old nurse that watched her bed. 

Rose up with ' Well-a-day !' 
And opened the casement to let in 
The sun, and that sweet doubtful din 
Which droppeth from the grass and 

bough 
Sans wind and bird — none knoweth 
how — 
To cheer her as she lay. 



The old nurse started when she saw 

Her sudden look of woe ! 
But the quick wan tremblings round her 
mouth 

In a meek smile did go ; 
And calm she said, ' When I am dead, 

Dear nurse, it shall be so. 



'Till then, shut out those sights and 
sounds. 

And pray God pardon me. 
That I without this pain, no more 

His blessed works can see ! 
And lean beside me, loving nurse. 
That thou mayst hear, ere I am worse, 

What thy last love should be.' 



The loving nurse leant over her. 
As white she lay beneath ; 

The old eyes searching, dim with life. 
The young ones dim with death. 

To read their look if sound forsook 
The trying, trembling breath. — 



' When all this feeble breath is done. 

And 1 on bier am laid, 
My tresses smoothed for never a feast. 

My body in shroud arrayed ; 
Uplift each palm in a saintly calm. 

As if that still I prayed. 



• And heap beneath mine head th» 
flowers 

You stoop so low to pull ; 
The little white flowers from the wood. 

Which grow there in the cool ; 
Which he and I, in childhood's games. 



34 



THE POET'S VOIV. 



Went plucking, knowing not their 
names. 
And filled thine apron full. 



• Weep not 1 / weep not. Death is 
strong ; 

The eyes of Death are dry ; 
But lay this scroll upon my breast 

When hushed its heavings lie ; 
And wait awhile for the corpse's smile 

Which shmeth presently. 



• And when it shineth, straightway call 
Thy youngest children dear, 

And bid them gently carry me 
All barefaced on the bier — 

But bid them pass my kirkyard grass 
That waveth long anear. 



• And up the bank where I used to sit, 
And dream what life would be, 

Along the brook, with its sunny look 
Akin to living glee ; 

O'er the windy hill, through the forest 
still. 
Let them gently carry mc. 



' And through the piney forest still, 
And down the open moorland — 

Round where the sea beats mistily 
And blindly on the foreland — 

And let them chant that hymn I know, 

Bearmg me soft, bearing me slow, 
To the old hall of Courland. 



'And when withal they near the hall, 

In silence let them lay 
My bier before the bolted door, 

And leave it for a day : 
For I have vowed, though T am proud, 
To go there as a guest in shroud, 

And not be turned away.' 



The old nurse looked within her eyes. 
Whose mutual look was gone : 



The old nurse stooped upon her mouth, 

Whose answermg voice w.is done ; 
And nought she heard, till a little bird 

Upon the casement's woodbine swing- 
ing. . . 
Broke out into a loud sweet singing 

For joy o' the summer sun. 
" Alack ! alack ! " — she watched no 
more — 

With head on knee she wailed sore ; 
And the little bird sang o'er and o'er 

For joy o' the summer sun. 



PART THE FIFTH. 

SHOWING HOW THE VOW WAS BROKEN, 



The poet oped his bolted door. 

The midnight sky to view. 
A spirit feel was in the air 
Which seemed to touch his spirit bare 

Whenever his breath he drew ; 
And the stars a liquid softness had, 
As alone their holiness forbade 

Their falling with the dew. 



They shine upon the steadfast hills, 

Upon the swinging tide ; 
Upon the narrow track of beach, 

And the murmuring pebbles pied ; 
They shine on every lovely place — 
They shine upon the corpse's face. 

As it were fair beside. 



It lay before him, humanlike, 

Yet so unlike a thing ! 
More awful in its shrouded pomp 

Than any crowned king : 
All calm and cold, as it did hold 

Some secret, glorying. 



A heavier weight than of its clay 
Clung to his heart and knee : 

As if those folded palms could strike. 
He staggered groaningly, 

And then o'erhung, without a groan. 



THE POET'S VOW. 



35 



The meek close mouth that smiled alone. 
Whose speech the scroll must be. 

THE WORDS OF ROSALIND's SCROLL. 

• I LEFT thee last, a child at heart, 

A woman scarce in years : 
I come to thee a solemn corpse. 

Which neither feels nor fears. 
I have no breath to use in sighs ; 
They laid the death-weights on mine 
eyes. 

To seal them safe from tears. 

•Look on me with thine own calm look — 

I meet it calm as thou ! 
No look of thine can change this smile, 

Or break thy sinful vow. 
I tell thee that my poor scorned heart 
Is of thine earth . . thine earth — a 
part — 

It cannot vex thee now. 

' But out, alas ! those words are writ 

By a living, loving one, 
Adown whose cheeks, the proofs of life 

The warm quick tears do run. 
Ah, let the imloved cprpse control 
Thy scorn back from the loving soul 

Whose pla.ce of rest is won, 

• I have prayed for thee with bursting 

sobs. 
When passion's course was free : 
I have prayed for thee with silent lips. 

In the anguish none could see ! 
They whispered oft, ' She sleepeth 
soft ' — 
But I only prayed for thee. 

• Go to ! I pray for thee no more — 

The corpse's tongue is still : 
Its folded hngers point to heaven. 

But point there stiff and chill : 
No farther wrong, no farther woe 
Hath license from the sin below 

Its tranquil heart to thrill. 

• I charge thee, by the living's prayer. 

And the dead's silentness. 
To wring from out thy soul a cry 

Which God shall hear and bless ! 
Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my 
hand. 



And pale among the saints I stand, 
A saint companionless.' 



Bow lower down before the throne. 

Triumphant Rosalind ! 
He boweth on thy corpse his face. 

And weepeth as the blind. 
'Twas a dread sight to see them so — 
For the senseless corpse rocked to ami 
fro 

With the living wail of his mind. 



But dreader sight, could such be seen. 

His inward mind did lie ; 
Whose long-subj ected humanness 

Gave-out its lion cry. 
And fiercely rent its tenement 

In a mortal agony. 



I tell you, friends, had you heard hi« 
wail, 

'T would haunt you in court and mart, 
And in merry feast, until you set 

Your cup down to depart — 
That weeping wild of a reckless child 

I'rom a proud man's broken he^rt. 



O broken heart ! O broken vow. 
That wore so proud a feature ! 

God, grasping as a thunderbolt 
The man's rejected nature, 

Smote him therewith — i' the presence 
high 

Of his so worshipped earth and sky 

That looked on all indififerentlj' — 
A wailing human creature. 



A human creature found too weak 

To bear his human pain — 
(May Heaven's dear grace have spoken 
peace 

To his dying heart and brain !) 
For when they came at dawn of day 
To lift the lady's corpse away, 

Her bier was holding twain. 



36 



THE ROM AUNT OF MAR G RET. 



They dug beneath the kirkyard grass 

For both one dweUing deep : 
To which, when years had mossed the 

stone, 
Sir Roland brought his little son 

To watch the funeral heap. 

And when the happy boy would rather 
Turn upward his blithe eyes to see 
The wood -doves nodding from the tree — 

' Nay, boy, look downward,' said his 
father, 
' Upon this hii man dust asleep : 
And hold it in thy constant ken 
That God's own unity compresses 

One into one, the human many. 
And that His everlastingness is 

The bond which is not loosed byanJ^ 

For thou and I this law must keep, 
If not in love, in sorrow then ; 
Though smiling not like other men. 

Still like them we must weep.' 



THE ROMAUNT OF 
MARGRET. 



C»n my affections find out nothing best, 
But still and still remove ? 

QUARLKS. 



I PLANT a tree whose leaf 

The yew-tree leaf will suit ; 
But when its shade is o'er you laid, 

Turn round and pluck the fruit ! 
Now reach my harp from off the wall 

Where shines the sun aslant : 
The sun may shine and we be cold — 
O hearken, loving hearts and bold. 

Unto my wild romaunt, 

Margret, Margret, 



Sitteth the fair ladye 
Close to the river side. 



Which runneth on with a merry tone. 
Her merry thoughts to guide. 
It runneth through the trees. 
It runneth by the hill, 
Nathless the lady's thoughts have found 
A way more pleasant still. 

Margret, Margret. 



The night is in her hair 

And giveth shade to shade. 
And the pale moonlight on her forehead 
white 
Like a spirit's hand is laid : 
Her lips part with a smile 
Instead of speakings done — 
I ween, she thinketh of a voice, 
Albeit uttering none. 

Margret, Margret. 



All little birds do sit 

With heads beneath their wings : 
Nature doth seem in a mystic dream. 
Absorbed from her living things. . 
That dream by that ladye 
Is certes unpartook. 
For she looketh to the high cold stars 
With a tender human look. 

Margret, Margret. 



The lady's shadow lies 
Upon the running river : 
It lieth no less in its quietness. 

For that which resteth never : 
Most like a trusting heart 
Upon a passing faith, — 
Or as, upon the course of life. 
The steadfast doom of death. 

Margret, Margret. 



The lady doth not move. 
The lady doth not dream. 
Yet she seeth her shade no longer laid 
In rest upon the stream ! 
It shaketh without wind ; 
It parteth from the tide ; 
It standeth upright in the cleft moon> 
light- 
It sitteth at her side. 

Margret, Margret. 



THE ROMAUNT OF MARGRET. 



Look in its face, ladye. 
And keep thee from thy swound ! 
With a spirit bold, thy pulses hold. 
And hear its voice's sound ! 
Fur so will sound thy voice. 
When thy face is to the wall ; 
And such will be thy face, ladye. 

When the maidens work thy pall— 
Margret, Margret. 

VIII. 

' Am I not like to thee ? ' — 
The voice was calm and low — 
And between each word you might have 
heard 
The silent forests grow. 
' The like may szvay the like ! 
By which mysterious lay 
Mine eyes from thine and my lips from 
thine 
The light and breath may draw. 

Margret, Margret, 



' My lips do need thy breath. 
My lips do need thy smile. 
And my pallid eyne, that light in thine 
Which met the stars orewhile ; 
Yet go with light and life. 
If that thou lovest one 
In all the earth, who loveth thee 
As truly as the sun, 

Margret, Margret.' 



Her cheek had waxed white 
Like cloud at fall of snow ; 
Then like to one at set of sun. 
It waxed red also ; 
For love's name maketh bold. 
As if the loved were near. 
And then she sighed the deep long sigh 
Which Cometh after fear. 

Margret, Margret. 

XI. 

' Now, sooth, I fear thee not — 
Shall never fear thee now ! ' 
(And a noble sight was the sudden light 
Which lit her lifted brow.) 

'Can earth be dry of streams. 
Or hearts of love ? ' she said — 



Who doubteth love, can know not love : 
He is already dead.' 

Margret, Margret. 



' I have ' . . . and here her lips 
Some word in pause did keep. 
And gave the while a quiet .smile. 
As if they paused in .sleep ; — 
' I have ... a brother dear, 
A knight of knightly fame ! 
I broidered him a knightly scarf 
With letters of my name. 

Margret, Margret 



' I fed his grey goss hawk, 
I kissed his fierce bloodhound ; 
I sate at home when he might come. 
And caught his horn's far sound : 
I sang him hunter's songs, 
I poured him the red wine — 
He looked across the cup an4 said, 
I lave thee, sister mine.' 

Margret, Margret. 

XIV. 

IT trembled on the grass. 

With a low, shadowy laughter : 
The sounding river which rolled forever. 
Stood dumb and stagnant after. 
" Brave knight thy brother is ; 
But better loveth he 
Thy chaliced wine than thy chanted 
song. 
And better both than thee, 

Margret, Margret. 



The lady did not heed 
The river's silence while 
Her own thoughts still ran at their will. 
And calm was still her smile. 
' My little sister wears 
The look our mother wore : 
I smooth her locks with a golden comb-* 
I bless her evermore.' 

Margret, Margret. 



[ gave her my first bird, 
When first my voice it knew 



38 



THE ROM AUNT OF MARCRET. 



I made her share my posies rare, 
And told her where they grew : 
I taught her God's dear name 
With prayer and praise, to tell — 
She looked from heaven into my face. 
And said, I love thee well' 

Margret, Margret. 



IT trembled on the grass 

With a low, shadowy laughter ; 
You could see each bird as it woke and 
stared 
Through the shrivelled foliage after, 
/air child thy sister is ; 
But better loveth she 
Thy golden comb than thy gathered 
flowers. 
And better both than thee, 

Margret, Margret. 



The lady did not heed 

The wfthering on the bough : 
Still calm the smile albeit the while 
A little pale her brow. 
' I have a father old, 
The lord of ancient halls : 
An hundred friends are in his court. 
Yet only me he calls. 

Margret, Margret. 



* An hundred knights are in his court. 
Yet read I by his knee ; 
And when forth they go to the tourney 
show, 
I rise not up to see. 
'Tis a weary book to read — 
My tryst's at set of sun ! 
But loving and dear beneath the stars 
Is his blessing when I've done.' 

Margret, Margret. 



IT trembled on the grass 

With a low, shadowy laughter : 
And moon and star though bright and 
far 
Did shrL.'*'' and darken after. 
* High lord thy father is ; 
But better loveth he 



His ancient halls than his hundred 
friends. 
His ancient halls, than thee, 

Margret, Margret.' 



The lady did not heed 

That the far stars did fail : 
Still calm her smile, albeit the while . . 
Nay, but she is not pale I 
' I have a more than friend 
Across the mountain dim : 
No other's voice is soft to me. 
Unless it nameth him.'' 

Margret, Margret 

XXII. 

'Though louder beats mine heart 
1 know his tread again — 
And his far plume aye, unless turned 
away. 
For the tears do blind me then. 
We brake no gold, a sign 
Of stronger faith to be ; 
Butl wear his last look in my soul. 
Which said, / lirve but thee ! ' 

Margret, Margret. 



IT trembled on the grass. 

With a low, shadowy laughter ; 
And the wind did toll, as a pa.ssing soul 
Were sped by church-bell after : 
And shadows, 'stead of light. 
Fell from the stars above. 
In flakes of darkness on her face 
Still bright with trusting love. 

Margret, Margret. 

XXIV. 

' He lo7>ed but only thee ! 
That love is transient too. 
The wild hawk's bill doth dabble still 
r the mouth that vowed thee true. 
Will he open his dull eyes. 
When tears fall on his brow ? 
Behold, the death-worm to his heart 
Is a nearer thing than thou, 

Margret, Margret. 



Her face was on the ground — 
None saw the agony I 



JSOBEL'S CHILD. 



But the men at sea did that night agree 
They heard a drowning cry. 
And when the morning brake. 
Fast rolled the river's tide. 
With the green trees waving overhead. 
And a white corse laid beside. 

Margret, Margret. 



A knight's bloodhound and he 
The funeral watch did keep : 
With a thought o' the chase he stroked 
its face 
As it howled to see him weep. 
A fair child kissed the dead, 
But shrank before the cold : 
And alone yet proudly in his hall. 
Did stand a baron old. 

Margret, Margret. 



Hang up my harp again — 
I have no voice for song. 
Not song but wail, and mourners pale 
Not bards, to love belong. 
O failing human love ! 

O light by darkness known I 
O false the while thou treadest earth ! 
O deaf beneath the stone ! 

Margret, Margret. 



ISOBEUS CHILD. 



80 find we profit, 

By losing of our prayers. 

SUAKSPE.VRE. 



To rest the weary nurse has gone ; 
An eijjht-day watch had watched 
she. 
Rocking beneath the sun and moon 

The baby on her knee : 
Till Isobel its mother said 
'The fever waneth — wend to bed — 
For now the watch comes round to 
me.' 



Then wearily the nurse did throw 
Her pallet in the darkest place 

Of that sick room, and slept and 

dreamed. 
And as the gusty wind did blow 
The night-lamp's flare across her 
face. 
She saw or seemed to see but dream- 
ed. 
That the poplars tall on the oppo- 
site hill. 
The seven tall poplars on the hill. 
Did clasp the setting sun until 
His rays dropped from him, pined and 
still 

As blossoms in frost : 
Till he waned and paled, so weirdly 
cros-sed. 
To the colour of moonlight which 

doth pass 
Over the dank ridged churchyard 
grass. 
The poplars held the sun, and he 
The eyes of the nurse that they should 

not see. 
Not for a moment, the babe on her 

knee. 
Though she shuddered to feci that it 
grew to be 
Too chill, and lay too heavily. 



She only dreamed : for all the while 
'Twas Lady Isobel that kept 
The little baby ; and it slept 
Fast, warm, as if its mother's smile, 
Laden with love's dewy weight. 
And red as rose of Harpocrate 
Dropt upon its eyelids, pressed 
Lashes to cheek in a sealed rest. 



And more and more smiled Isobel 
To see the baby sleep so well— 
She knew not that<she smiled. 
Against the lattice, dull and wild 
Drive the heavy droning drops, 
Drop by drop, the sound being f)nc— 
As momently time's segments fall 
On the ear of God who hears through 
all 



ISOBEL'S CHILD. 



Eternity's unbroken monotone. 
And more and more smiled Isobel 
To see the baby sleep so well — 
She knew not that she smiled. 
The wind in intermission stops 
Down in the beechen forest. 
Then cries aloud 
As one at the sorest, 
Self-stLmg, self-driven, 
And rises up to its very tops. 
Stiffening erect the branches bowed ; 
Dilating with a tempest soul 
The trees that ^ith their dark hands 
break j , -i 

Through their o-.n outUne and heavily 
roll . , ^ . 

I'jhadows as massive as clouds in 
heaven. 
Across the castle lake. 
And more and more smiled Isobel 
To see the baby sleep so well ; 
She knew not that she smiled— 
She knew not that the storm was wild. 
Through the uproar drear she could not 

hear 
The castle clock which struck anear— 
She heard the low, light breathing ot 
her child. 



O sight for wondering look ! 
While the external nature broke 
Into such abandonment ; 
While the very mist heart-rent 
By the lightning, seemed to eddy 
Against nature, with a din— 
A sense of silence and of steady 
Natural calm appeared to come 
From things without, and enter m 

The human creature's room. 

VI. 

So motionless she sate. 
The babe asleep upon her knees. 
You might have dreamed their souls had 

gone 
Away to things inanimate. 
In such to live, in such to moan ; 
And that their bodies had ta'en back. 
In mystic change, all silences 
That cross the sky in cloudy rack. 
Or dwell beneath the reedy ground 
in waters safe from their own sound. 



Only she wore 
The deepening smile I named before. 
And that a deepening love expressed— 
And who at once can love and rest ? 



In sooth the smile that then was keeping 
Watch upon the baby sleeping. 
Floated with its tender light 
Downward, from the drooping eyes. 
Upward, from the lips apart. 
Over cheeks which had grown white 

With an eight-day weeping. 
All smiles come in such a wise. 
Where tears shall fall or have of old- 
Like northern lights that fill the heart 

Of heaven in sign of cold. 



Motionless she sate : 
Her hair had fallen by its weight 
On each side of her smile, and lay 
Very blackly on the arm 
Where the baby nestled warm ; 
Pale as baby carved in stone 
Seen by glimpses of the moon 

Up a dark cathedral aisle : 
But, through the storm, no moonbeam 

fell 
Upon the child of Isobel — 
Perhaps you saw it by the ray 

Alone of her still smile. 



A solemn thing it is to me 
To look upon a babe that sleeps- 
Wearing in its spirit-deeps 
The undeveloped mystery 
Of its Adam's taint and woe. 
Which, when they developed be. 
Will not let it slumber so : 
Lying new in life beneath 
The shadow of the coming death. 
With that soft, low, quiet breath. 

As if it felt the sun ! 
Knowing all things by their blooms. 
Not their roots ; yea,— sun and sky. 
Only by the warmth that comes 
Out of each ; earth only by 
The pleasant hues that o'er it run ; 
And human love, by drops of sweet 
White nourishment still hanging round 



ISOBEL'S CHILD. 



4* 



The little mouth so slumber-bound. 

All which broken sentiency 

And conclusion incomplete. 

Will gather and unite and climb 

To an immortality 

Good or evil, each sublime. 

Through life and death to life again ! 

O little lids, now folded fast. 

Must ye learn to drop at last 

Our large and burning tears? 

O warm quick body, must thou lie. 

When the time comes round to die, 

Still from all the whirl of years. 

Bare of all the joy and pain 1 

O small frail being, wilt thou stand 
At God's right hand. 

Lifting up those sleeping eyes 

Dilated by great destinies. 

To an endless waking? Thrones and 
seraphim. 

Through the long ranks of their solemni- 
ties. 

Sunning thee with calm looks of 
Heaven's surprise — 

But thine alone on Hint ? — 

Or else, self-willed, to tread the godless 
place, 

(God keep thy will !) feel thine own 
energies 

Cold, strong, objectless, like a dead 
man's clasp, 

The sleepless deathless life within thee, 
grasp; 

While myriad faces, like one changeless 
face. 

With woe 7iot love's, shall glass thee 
everywhere. 

And overcome thee with thine own des- 
pair? 



More soft, less solemn images 
Drifted o'er the lady's heart. 

Silently as snow : 
She had seen eight days depart 
Hour by hour, on bended knees. 
With pale- wrung hands and prayings low 
And broken — through which came the 

sound 
Of tears that fell against the ground, 
Making sad stops ; — ' Dear Lord, dear 

Lord ! ' 
She still had prayed — (the heavenly 

word. 



Broken by an earthly sigh), 
' Thou, wh^ didst not erst deny 
The mother-joy to Mary mild, 
Blessed in the blessed child. 
Which hearkened in meek babyhood 
Her cradle-hymn, albeit used 
To all that music interfused 
In breasts of angels high and good ! 
Oh, take not. Lord, my babe away — 
Oh, take not to thy songful heaven. 
The pretty baby thou hast given. 
Or ere that I have seen him play 
Around his father's knees and known 
That he knew how my love hath gone 

From all the world to him. 
Think, God among the cherubim, 
How I shall shiver every day 
In thy June sunshine, knowing where 
The grave-grass keeps it from his fair 
Still cheeks ! and feel at every tread 
His little body which is dead 
And hidden in the turfy fold. 
Doth make thy whole warm earth a- 
cold ! 

God, I am so young, so young — 

1 am not used to tears at nights 
Instead of slumber — nor to prayer 
With sobbing lips and hands out-wrung ; 
Thou knowest all my prayings were 

' I bless thee, God, for past dehghts — 
Thank God !' I am not used to bear 
Hard thoughts of death. The earth 

doth cover 
No face from me of friend or lover : 
And must the first who teacheth me 
The form of shrouds and funerals, be 
Mine own first-born beloved ? he 
Who taught me first this mother-love ? 
Dear Lord, who spreadest out above 
Thy loving, transpierced hands to meet 
All lifted hearts with blessing sweet, — 
Pierce not my heart, my tender heart. 
Thou madest tender ! Thou who art 
So happy in thy heaven alway. 
Take not mine only bliss away ! ' 



She so had prayed : and God, who hears 
Through seraph -songs the sound of tears. 
From that beloved babe had ta'en 
The fever and the beating pain. 
And more and more smiled Isobel 
To see the baby sleep so well — 

(She knew not that she smiled, I wis,) 



42 



ISOBEL'S CHILD. 



Until the pleasant gradual thought 
Which near her heart the smile en- 
wrought, 
(Soon strong enough her lips to reach,) 
Now soft and slow, itself, did seem 
To float along a happy dream. 
Beyond it into speech like this. 

XII. 

' I prayed for thee, my little child. 
And God hath heard my prayer ! 
And when thy babyhood is gone, 
We two together, undefiled 
By men's repinings, li'ill kneel down 
Upon His earth which will be fair 
(Not covering thee, sweet !) to us twain, 
And give Him thankful praise.' 



Dully and wildly drives the rain : 
Against the lattices drives the rain. 



• I thank Him now, that I can think 

Of those same future days. 
Nor from the harmless image shrink 

Of what I there might see- 
Strange babies on their mothers' knee. 
Whose innocent soft faces might 
From off my eyelids strike the light. 
With looks not meant for me I ' 



Gustily blows the wind through the rain. 
As against the lattices drives the rain. 



' But now, O baby mine, together. 

We turn this hope of ours again 

To many an hour of summer weather 

When we shall sit aivcl intertwine 

Our spirits, and instruct each other 

In the pure loves of child and mother ! 

Two human loves make one divine.' 



The thunder tears through the wind and 

the rain. 
As full on the lattices drives the rain. 



• My little child, what wilt thou choose ? 
Let me look at thee and ponder. 



What gladness, from the gladnesses 
Futurity is spreading under 
Thy gladsome sight ? Beneath the ir 
Wilt tliou lean all day and lose 
Thy spirit with the river seen 
Interm t enlly between 
The winding beechen alleys,— 
Half in labour, half repose. 
Like a shepherd keeping sheep. 
Thou, with only thoughts to keep 
Which never a bound will overpass. 
And which are innocent as those 
That feed among Arcadian valleys 
Upon the dewy grass ? * 



The large white owl that with age is 

blind, , , ^ 

That hath sate for years in the old trec« 

hollow. 
Is carr A d away in a gust of wind ! 
His wings could bear him not as fast 
As he goeth now the lattice past- 
He is borne by the winds ; the rains doi 

follow : 
His white wings to the blast out-flowing» 

He hooteth in going. 
And still in the lightnings, coldly ghttei^ 

His roimd imblinking eyes. 



• Or, baby, wilt thou think it fitter 

To be eloquent and wise ? 

One upon whose lips the air 

Turns to .solemn verities, . 

For men to breathe anew, and win 

A deeper-seated life within? 

Wilt be a philosopher. 

By whose voice the earth and skies 

Shall speak to the unborn 1 

Or a poet, broadly spreading 

The golden immortalities 

Of thy soul on natures lorn 

And poor of such, them all to guard 

F>om their decay ? beneath thy treac 

ing. 
Earth's flowers recovering hues of Eder 
And stars, drawn downward by th 

looks 
To shine ascendant in thy books ? 



1 



rSOBEL'S CHILD. 



The tame hawk in the castle yard. 
How it screams to the lightning, with its 

wet 
Jagged plumes overhanging the parapet ! 
And at the lady's door the hound 
Scratches with a crying sound I 



' But, O my babe, thy lids are laid 

Close, fast upon thy cheek ! 
And not a dream of power and sheen 
Can make a passage up between : 
Thy heart is of thy mother's made. 

Thy looks are very meek ! 
And it will be their chosen place 
To rest on some beloved face. 
As these on thine — and let the noise 
Of the whole world go on, nor drown 
The tender silence of thy joys; 
Or when that silence shall have grown 
Too tender for itself, the same 
Yearning for sound, — to look above 
And utter its one meaning, love. 

That He may hear His name ! ' 

XXIII. 

No wind — no rain — no thunder 1 

The waters had trickled not slowly. 

The thimder was not spent. 

Nor the wind near finishing. 

Who would have said that the storm was 

diminishing ? 
No wind — no rain — no thunder ! 
Their noises dropped asunder 
From the earth and the firmament. 
From the towers and the lattices. 
Abrupt and echoless 
As ripe fruits on the ground unshaken 

wholly — 

As life in death ; 
And sudden and solemn the silence fell. 
Startling the heart of Isobel 

As the tempest could not ! 
Against the door went panting the breath 
Of the lady's hound whose cry was still — 
And she, constrained howe'er she would 

not, 
Did lift her eyes, and saw the moon 
Looking out of heaven alone 
Upon the poplared hill, — 
A calm of God, made visible 
That men might bless it at their will. 



The moonshine on the baby's face 

Falleth clear and cold. 
The mother's looks have fallen back 

To the same place : 
Because no moon with silver rack. 
Nor broad sunrise in jasper skies 
Have power to hold 
Our loving eyes. 

Which still revert, as ever must 

Wonder and Hope, to gaze on the dust. 



The moonshine on the baby's face 
Cold and clear remaineth ! 

The mother's looks do shrink away. 

The mother's looks return to stay. 
As charmed by what paineth. 

Is any glamour in. the case ? 

Is it dream or is it sight ? 

Hath the change upon the wild 

Elements, that signs the night. 
Passed upon the child ? 

It is not dream but sight ! — 

XXVI. 

The babe hath awakened from sleep. 
And unto the gaze of its mother 
Bent over it, lifted another ! 
Not the baby looks that go 
Unaimingly to and fro : 
But an earnest gazing deep. 
Such as soul gives soul at length. 
When, by work and wail of years. 
It winneth a solemn strength. 
And mourn cth as it wears ! 
A strong man could not brook 
With pulse imhurried by fears. 
To meet that baby's look 
O'erglazed by manhood's tears — 
The tears of the man full grown, 
With the power to wring our own, 
In the eyes all undefiled 
Of a little three-months' child ! 
To see that babe-brow wrought 
By the witnessing of thought. 
To judgment's prodigy ; 
And the small soft mouth unweaned. 
By mother's kiss o'erleaned 
(Putting the sound of loving 
Where no sound else was moving. 
Except the speechless cry) 
Quickened to mind's expression. 



44 



ISOBEL'S CHILD. 



Shaped to articulation — 
Yea, uttering words — yea, naming woe 
In tones that with it strangely went. 
Because so baby-innocent. 
As the child spake out to the mother 
sol— 



' O mother, mother, loose thy prayer 1 

Christ's name hath made it strong 1 
It baideth me, it holdeth me 
Witli its most loving cruelty. 
From floating my new soul along 

Tile happy heavenly air ! 
It biadeth me, it holdeth me 
In all this dark, upon this dull 
Low earth, by only weepers trod ! — 
It bindeth me, it holdeth me ! — 
Mine angel looketh sotrowful 
Upon the face of God.* 



' Mother, mother ! can I dream 

Beneath your earthly trees? 

I had a vision and a gleam — 

I heard a sound more sweet than these 

When rippled by the wind. 
Did you see the Dove with wings 
Bathed in golden glisterings 
From a sunless light behind. 
Dropping on me from the sky 
Soft as mother's kiss until 
I seemed to leap, and yet was still ? 
Saw you how his love-large eye 
Looked upon me mystic calms, 
'i'ili the power of his divine 
Vi.sion was indrawn to mine? 

XXIX. 

' Oh, the dream within the dream ! 
I saw celestial places even. 
O'l, the vistas of high palms. 
Making finites of delight 
'I'hrough the heavenly infinite — 
Lifting up their green still tops 

To the heaven of Heaven ! 
Oh, the sweet life- tree that drops 
Shade like light across the river 
Glorified in its for ever 

Flowing from the Throne ! 

* Fori R;iy unto yriii, tliat in Heaven tlicli- 
angels <lo ill wii>s beliol. I (he face of my Father 
which xa lu lleaveli.— .UiK. eh. xviil. ver. 10. 



Oh the shining holinesses 

Of the thousand, thousand faces 

God-sunned by the throned OneI 

And made intense with such a love. 

That though I saw them turned above. 

Each loving seemed for also me ! 

And, oh, the Unspeakable ! the He, 

The manifest in secrecies. 

Yet of mine own heart partaker 1 

With the overcoming look 

Of one who hath been once forsook. 

And blesseth the forsaker. 
Mother, mother, let me go 
Towards the face that looketh 90. 
Through the mystic, winged Four 
Whose are inward, outward eyes 
Dark with light of mysteries. 
And the restless evermore 
' Holy, holy, holy,' — through 
The sevenfold Lamps that burn in view 
Of cherubim and seraphim ; 
Through the four-and-twenty crowned 
Stately elders, white around. 
Suffer me to go to Him ! 



' Is your wisdom very wise. 
Mother, on the narrow earth ? 
Very happy, very worth 
That I should stay to learn ? 
Are these air-corrupting sighs 
Fashioned by unlearned breath ? 
Do the students' lamps that burn 
All night, illumine death? 
Mother, albeit this be so. 
Loose thy prayer and let me go 
Where that bright chief angel stands 
Apart from all his lirother bands. 
Too glad for smiling ; having bent 
In angelic wilderment 
O'er the depths of God, and brought 
Reeling thence, one only thouglit 
To fill his whole eternity. 
He the teacher is for me 1 — 
He can teach what I would know — 
Mother, Mother, let me go ! 



' Can your poet make an Eden 

No winter will undo? 
And light a starry fire while heeding 

His hearth's is burning too? 
Drown in music the earth's din ? 
And keep his own wild soul within 



ISOBEL'S CHILD, 



Ai 



The law of his own harmony ? — 

Mother ! albeit this be so, 
Let me to my Heaven go ! 
A little harp me waits thereby — 
A harp whose strings are golden all. 
And tuned to music spherical. 
Hanging on the green life-tree 
Where no willows ever be. 
Shall I miss that harp of mine ? 
Mother, no ! — the Eye divine 
Turned upon it, makes it shine — 
And when 1 touch it, poems sweet 
Like separate souls shall fly from it. 
Each to an immortal fytte. 
We shall all be poets there. 
Gazing on the chiefest Fair I 

XXXII. 

' And love ! earth's love ! and ca^i we 

love 
Fixedly where all things move ? 
Can the shining love each other ? 

Mother, mother, 
I tremble in thy close embrace — 
I feel thy tears adown my face — 
Thy prayers do keep me out of bliss — 

O dreary earthly love ! 
Loose thy prayer and let me go 
To the place which loving is 
Yet not sad ! and when is given 
Escape to thee from this below, 
Thou shalt behold me that I wait 
For thee beside the happy gate ; 
And silence shall be up in heaven 

To hear our greeting kiss.' 

XXXIII. 

The nurse awakes in the morning sun, 
And starts to see beside her bed 
The lady with a grandeur spread 
Like pathos o'er her face ; as one 
God-satisfied and earth-undone : 
The babe upon her arm was dead ! 
And the nurse could utter forth no cry, — 
She was awed by the calm in the 
mother's eye. 

XXXIV. 

' Wake nurse !' the lady said : 
• IVc are waking — he and I — 
I, on earth, and he, in sky ! 
And thou must help me to o'erlay 



With garment white, this little clay 
Which needs no more our lullaby. 



' I changed the cruel prayer I made. 
And bowed my meekened face, and 

prayed 
That God would do His will! and 

thus 
He did it, nurse ; He parted us. 
And His sun shows victorious 
The dead calm face : — and / am 

calm : 
And Heaven is hearkening a new 

psalm. 

XXXVI. 
' This earthly noise is too anear. 
Too loud, and will not let me hear 
The Httle harp. My death will soon 
Make silence.' 

And a sense of tune, 
A satisfied love meanwhile 
Which nothing earthly could despoil. 
Sang on within her soul. 



Oh you. 
Earth's tender and impassioned few. 
Take courage to entrust your love 
To Him so jNlamed, who guards above 

Its ends and shall fulfil ; 
Breaking the narrow prayers that may 
Befit your narrow hearts, away 

In his broad, loving will. 



A ROMANCE OF THE 
GANGES. 



Seven maidens 'neath the midnight 

Stand near the rivei*-sea. 
Whose water sweepeth white around 

The shadow of the tree. 
The moon and earth are face to face, 

And earth is slumbering deep ; 



46 



A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES. 



The wave-voice seems the voice of 
dreams 
That wander through her sleep. 

The river floweth on. 



What bring they 'neath the midnight. 

Beside the river-sea ? 
They bring that human heart wherein 

No nightly calm can be, — 
That droppeth never with the wind. 

Nor dryeth with the dew : 
Oh, calm it God ! T/iy calm is broad 

To cover spirits, too. 

The river floweth on. 



The maidens lean them over 

The waters, side by side. 
And shun each other's deepening eyes. 

And gaze adown the tide : 
For each within a little boat 

A little lamp hath put. 
And heaped for freight some lily's 
weight 

Or scarlet rose half shut. 

The river floweth on. 



Of a shell of cocoa carven. 
Each little boat is made : 
Each carries a lamp, and carries a flower. 

And carries a hope unsaid. 
And when the boat hath carried the 
lamp 
Unquenched, till out of sight, 
The maidens are sure that love will 
endure. 
But love will fail with light. 

The river floweth on. 



Why, all the stars are ready 

To symbolize the soul. 
The stars untroubled by the wind, 

Unwearied as they roll : 
And yet the soul by instinct sad 

Reverts to symbols low — 
To that small flame, whose very name 

Breathed o'er it, shakes it so. 

The river floweth on. 



Six boats are on the river. 

Seven maidens on the shore ; 
While still above them steadfastly 

The stars shine evermore. 
Go, little boats, go soft and safe. 

And guard the symbol spark! — 
The boats aright go safe and bright 

Across the waters dark. 

The river floweth on. 



The maiden Luti watcheth 

Where onwardly they float. 
That look in her dilating eyes 

Might seem to drive her boat ; 
Her eyes still mark the constant fire, 

And kindling unawares 
That hopeful while, she lets a smile 

Creep silent through her prayers. 
The river floweth on, 

vin. 
The smile — where hath it wandered ? 

She riseth from her knee, 
She holds her dark, wet locks away — 

There is no light to see ! 
She cries a quick and bitter cry — 

'Nuleeni, launch me thine! 
We must have light abroad to-night. 

For all the wreck of mine.' 

The river floweth on. 

IX. 

' I do remember watching 

Beside this river-bed. 
When on my childish knee was laid 

My dying father's head. 
I turned mine own, to keep the tears 

From falling on his face — 
What doth it prove when Death and 
Love 

Choose out the self-same place ?' 

The river floweth on. 



' They say the dead are joyful 
The death-change here receiving. 

Who say — ah, me ! — who dare to say 
Where joy comes to the living? 

Thy boat, Nuleeni ! look not sad- 
Light up the waters Bather I 



A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES. 



I weep no faithless lover where 
I wept a loving father.' 

The river floweth on. 



• My heart foretold his falsehood 

Ere my little boat grew dim : 
And though I closed mine eyes to dream 

That one last dream of him. 
They shall not now be wet to see 

The shining vision go : 
From earth's cold love I look above 

To the holy house of snow.' * 

The river floweth on . 

•XII. 

* Come thou — thou never knewest 

A grief, that thou shouldst fear one ; 
Thou wearest still the happy look 

That shines beneath a dear one ! 
Thy humming-bird is in the sun.t 

Thy cuckoo in the grove ; 
And all the three broad worlds, for thee 

Are full of wandering love.' 

The river floweth on. 



' Why, maiden, dost thou loiter ? 

What secret wouldst thou cover? 
That peepul cannot hide thy boat. 

And I can guess thy lover : 
I heard thee sob his name in sleep 

It was a name I knew — 
Come, little maid, be not afraid — 

But let us prove him true !' 

The river floweth on. 



The little maiden cometh— 
She cometh shy and slow ; 

I ween she seeth through her lids. 
They drop adown so low : 

Her tresses meet her small bare feet- 



* The Hindoo heaven Is localizeil on the 
summit of Mount Mem — one of the moun- 
tains of Himalaya or Himnieleli, which signi- 
fles, I believe, in Sanscrit, the abode of snow, 
winter, or coldness. 

t Hamadeva, the Indian Rod of love, is 
ImaRlned to wander throuf:li the three worlds, 
accompanied by the humming-bird, cuckoo, 
and gentlti breezes. 



She stands and speaketh nought, 
Yet blusheth red, as if she said 
The name she only thought. 

The river floweth on. 



She knelt beside the water. 

She lighted up the flame. 
And o'er her youthful forehead's calm 

The fitful radiance came : — 
' Go, little boat ; go, soft and safe. 

And guard the symbol spark !' 
Soft, safe, doth float the little boat 

Across the waters dark. 

The river floweth on. 



Glad tears her eyes have blinded ; 

The light they cannot reach : 
She turneth with that sudden smile 

She learnt before her speech — 
' I do not hear his voice ! the tears 

Have dimmed my light away 1 
But the symbol light will last to-night 

The love will last for aye.' 

The river floweth on. 



Then Luti spake behind her — 

Outspake she bitterly : 
' By the symbol light that lasts to-night. 

Wilt vow a vow to me ? ' — 
Nuleeni gazeth up her face — 

Soft answer maketh she : 
' By loves that last when lights are past, 

I vow that vow to thee !' 

The river floweth on. 



An earthly look had Luti 

Though her voice was deep as prayer : 
• The rice is gathered from the plains 

To cast upon thine hair !* 
But when he comes, his marriage band 

Around thy neck to throw. 
Thy bride-smile raise to meet his gaze. 
And whisper,— There i^ one betrays, 

IVhen Lidi suffers woe.' 

The river floweth on. 



« The casting of rice upon the head, and thu 
fixing of the band or tali about the neck, Hro 
partB of the Hindoo marriage ceremonial. 



AN ISLAND. 



' And when in seasons after. 

Thy little bright-faced son 
Shall lean against thy knee and ask 

What deeds his sire hath done. 
Press deeper down thy mother-smile 

His glossy curls among — 
View deep his pretty childish eyes, 
And whisper, — There is none denies, 

IVhefi Luii s/eai-s of wrong^.' 

The river floweth on. 



Nuleeni looked in wonder. 

Yet softly answered she — 
' By loves that last when lights are past, 

I vowed that vow to thee ; 
But why glads it thee that a bride-day 
be 

By a word of woe defiled ? 
That a word of wrong take the cradle- 
song 

From the ear of a sinless child ? ' — 

* Why! ' Luti said, and her voice was 

dread. 
And her eyes dilated wild — 

* That the fair new love may her bride- 

groom prove. 
And the father shame the child.' 

The river floweth on. 



• Thou flowest still, O river, 

Thou flowest 'neath the moon — 
The lily hath not changed a leaf,* 

Thy charmed lute a tune ! 
He mixed his voice with thine — and his 

Was all I heard around ; 
But now, beside his chosen bride, 

I hear the river's sound.' 

The river floweth on. 



• I gaze upon her beauty 

Through the tresses that enwreathe it : 
The light above thy wave is hers — 

My rest, alone beneath it. 
Oh, give me back the dying look 



• The Ganged is represented (is a white wo- 
man, with a water lily iu her lijjht hand, and 
in her lull a lute. 



My father gave thy water I 
Give back ! — and let a little love 
O'erwatch his weary daughter ! ' 

The river floweth on. 



' Give back ! ' she hath departed — 

The word is wandering with her ; 
And the stricken maidens hear afar 

The step and cry together. 
Frail symbols ? None are frail enow 

For mortal joys to borrow ! — 
While bright doth float Nuleeni's boat. 

She weepeth, dark with sorrow. 

The river floweth on. 



AN ISLAND. 



All goeth but Goddis will. 

Old Pokt. 



Mv dream is of an island place 
Which distant seas keep lonely : 

A little island, on whose face 
The stars are watchers only. 

Those bright still stars ! they need not t 
seem 

Brighter or stiller in my dream. 



An island full of hills and dells. 

All rumpled and uneven 
With green recesses, sudden swells. 

And odorous valleys driven 
So deep and straight, that always there q 
The wind is cradled to soft air. 



Hills running up to heaven for light 
Through woods that half-way ran ! 

As if the wild earth mimicked right 
The wilder heart of man : 

Only it shall be greener far 

And gladder than hearts ever are. 



More like, perhaps, that mountain piece* 

Of Dante's paradise. 
Disrupt to an hundred hills like these, 

In falling from the skies — 



AN ISLAND. 



49 



Bringing within it all the roots 
Of heavenly trees and flowers and 
fruits. 



For saving where the grey rocks strike 

Their javelins up the azure. 
Or where deep fissures, miser-like. 

Hoard up some fountain treasure, 
(And e'en in them — stoop down and 

hear — 
Leaf sounds with water in your ear !) 



The place is all awave with trees — 
Limes, myrtles purple-beaded ; 

Acacias having drunk the lees 
Of the night-dew, faint-headed ; 

And wan, grey olive-woods, which seem 

The fittest foliage for a dream. 

VII. 
Trees, trees on all sides I they combine 

Their plumy shades to throw ; 
Through whose clear fruit and blossom 
fine 
Whene'er the sun may go. 
The ground beneath he deeply stains. 
As passing through cathedral panes. 



But little needs this earth of ours 
That shining from above her. 

When many pleiades of flowers 
(Not one lost) star her over ; 

The r.ays of their unnumbered hues 

Being all refracted by the dews. 



Wide-petalled plants, that boldly drink 

The Amreeta of the sky ; 
Shut bells, that dull with rapture sink, 

And lolling buds, half shy ; 
I cannot count them ; but between. 
Is room for grass and mosses green. 



And brooks, that glass in different 
strengths 

All colours in disorder. 
Or gathering up their silver lengths 

Beside their winding border 



Sleep, haunted through the slumber hid- 
den. 
By lilies white as dreams in Eden. 



Nor think each arched tree with each 

Too closely interlaces. 
To admit of vistas out of reach. 

And broad moon-lighted places. 
Upon whose sward the an tiered deer 
May view their double inage clear. 



For all this Island's creature-full. 

Kept happy not by halves ; 
Mild cows that at the vine-wreaths pull. 

Then low back at their calves 
With tender lowings, to approve 
The warm mouths milking them for love. 



Free gamesome horses, antelopes. 
And harmless leaping leopards. 

And buff'aloes upon the slopes. 
And sheep unruled by shepherds : 

Hares, lizards, hedgehogs, badgers, 
mice. 

Snakes, squirrels, frogs, and butterflies. 



And birds that live there in a crowd — 
Horned owls, rapt nightingales. 

Larks bold with heaven, and peacocks 
proud. 
Self-sphered in those grand tails ; 

All creatures glad and safe, I deem : 

No guns nor springes in my dream I 



The island's edges are a-wing 
With trees that overbranch 

The sea with song-birds welcoming 
The curlews to green change. 

And doves from half-closed lids espy 

The red and purple fish go by. 



One dove is answering in trust 
The water every minute. 

Thinking so soft a murmur must 
Have her mate's cooing in it : 

So softly does earth's beauty round 

Infuse itself in ocean's sound. 



AN ISLAND. 



My sanguine soul bounds forwarder 
To meet the bounding waves ! 

Beside them straightway I repair. 
To live within the caves ; 

And near me two or three may dwell 

Whom dreams fantastic please as well. 



Long winding caverns ! glittering far 

Into a crystal distance ; 
Through clefts of which, shall many a 
star 

Shine clear without resistance, 
And carry down its rays the smell 
Of flowers above invisible. 



I said that two or three might choose 
Their dwelling near mine own : 

Those who would change man's voice 
and use 
For Nature's way and tone — 

Man's veering heart and careless eyes. 

For Nature's steadfast sympathies. 



Ourselves to meet her faithfulness. 
Shall play a faithful part : 

Her beautiful shall ne'er address 
The monstrous at our heart ; 

Her musical shall ever touch 

Something within us also such. 



Yet shall she not our mistress live. 
As doth the moon of ocean ; 

Though gently as the moon she give 
Our thoughts a light and motion. 

More like a harp of many lays. 

Moving its master while he plays. 

XXII. 

No sod in all that island doth 

Yawn open for the dead : 
No wind hath borne a traitor's oath ; 

No earth, a mourner's tread : 
We cannot say by stream or shade, 
' I suffered here — was here betrayed.' 



Our only ' farewell ' we shall laugh 
To shifting cloud or hour ; 



And use our only epitaph 

To some bud turned a flower : 
Our only tears shall serve to prove 
Excess in pleasure or in love. 



Our fancies shall their plumage catch 

From fairest island birds. 
Whose eggs let young ones out at hatch. 

Born singing ! then our words 
Unconsciously shall take the dyes 
Of these prodigious fantasies. 



Yea, soon, no consonant unsmooth 
Our smile turned lips shall reach : 

Sounds sweet as Hellas spake in youth 
Shall glide into our speech — 

(What music certes can you find 

As soft as voices which are kind ?) 



And often by the joy without 

And in us, overcome. 
We through our musing shall let float 

Such poems, — sitting dumb, — 
As Pindar might have writ, if he 
Had tended sheep in Arcady ; 



Or .^schylus — the pleasant fields 
He died in, longer knowing ; 

Or Homer, had men's sins and shields 
Been lost in Meles flowing ; 

Or poet Plato, had the undnn 

Unsetting Godlight broke on him. 



Choose me the cave most worthy choice. 
To make a place for prayer ; 

And I will choose a praying voice 
To pour our spirits there. 

How silverly the echoes run — 

Thy ■will be done, — Thy -will be done. 



Gently yet strangely uttered words !— 
They lift me from my dream. 

The island fadeth with its swards 
That did no more than seem ! 

The streams are dry, no sun could find- 

The fruits are fallen, without wind 



THE DESERTED GARDEN. 



So oft the doing of God's will 

Our foolish wills undoeth I 
And yet what idle dream breaks ill, 

Which morning light subdueth ; 
And who would murmur or misdoubt. 
When God's great sunrise finds him out ' 



I Or these, to make a diadem. 
She often may have plucked 

twined ; 
Half-smiling as it came to mind 
That few would look at them. 



THE DESERTED GARDEN. 

I MIND me in the days departed. 
How often underneath the sun 
With childish bounds I used to run 
To a garden long deserted. 

The beds and walks were vanished quite; 
And wheresoe'er had struck the spade. 
The greenest grasses Nature laid. 
To sanctify her right. 

I called the place my wilderness. 
For no one entered there bilt I. 
The sheep looked in, the grass to espy, 
And passed it ne'ertheless. 

The trees were interwoven wild. 
And spread their boughs enough about 
To keep both sheep and shepherd out. 
But not a happy child. 

Adventurous joy it was for me 1 
I crept beneath the boughs, and found 
A circle smooth of mossy ground 
Beneath a poplar tree. 

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, 
Bedropt with roses waxen-white 
Well satisfied with dew and light 
And careless to be seen. 

Long years ago it might befall. 
When all the garden flowers were trim. 
The grave old gardener prided him 
On these the most of all. 

Some Lady, stately overmuch. 
Here moving with a silken noise, 
Has blushed beside them at the voice 
That likened her to such. 



and 



Oh, little thought that Lady proud, 
A child would watch her fair white rose. 
When buried lay her whiter brows. 
And silk was changed for shroud ! — 

Nor thought that gardener, (full of scorns 
For men unlearned and simple phrase,) 
A child would bring it all its praise. 
By creeping through the thorns I 

To me upon my low moss seat. 
Though never a dream the roses sent 
Of science or love's compliment, 
I ween they smelt as sweet. 

It did not move my grief to see 
The trace of human step departed. 
Because the garden was deserted. 
The blither place for me 1 

Friends, blame me not ! a narrow ken. 
Hath childhood twixt the sun and 

sward : 
We draw the moral afterward — 
We feel the gladness then. 

And gladdest hours for me did glide 
In silence at the rose-tree wall : 
A thrush made gladness musical 
Upon the other side. 

Nor he nor I did e'er incline 
To peck or pluck the blossoms white — 
How should I know but roses might 
Lead lives as glad as mine ? 

To make my hermit-house complete, 
I brought clear water from the spring 
Praised in its own \(yff murmuring — 
And cresses glossy wet. 

And so, I thought my likeness grew 
(Without the melancholy talc) 
To 'gentle hermit of the dale,' 
And Angelina too 



Sa 



THE SOUL'S TR A FELLING. 



For oft 1 read within my nook 
Such minstrel stories ! till the breeze 
Made sounds poetic in the trees,— 
And then 1 shut the book. 

If I shut this wherein I write 
I hear no more the wind athwart 
Those trees, — nor feel that childish heart 
Delighting in delight. 

My childhood from my life is parted. 
My footstep from the moss which drew 
Its fairy circle round : anew 
The garden is deserted. 

Another thrush may there rehearse 
The madrigals which sweetest are : 
No more for me ! — myself afar 
Do sing a sadder verse. 

Ah me, ah me 1 when erst I lay 
In that child's-nest so greenly wrought, 
I laughed unto myself and thought 
'The time will pass away.' 

And still 1 laughed and did not fear 
But that, whene'er was past away 
The childish time, some happier play 
My womanhood would cheer. 

I knew the time v/ould pass away ; 
And yet, beside the rose-tree wall, 
Dear God, how seldom, if at all. 
Did 1 look up to pray ! 

The time is past : — and now that grows 
The cypress high among the trees. 
And I behold white sepulchres 
As well as the white rose, — 

When graver, meeker thoughts arc 

given. 
And I have learnt to lift my face. 
Reminded how earth's greenest place 
The colour draws from heaven, — 

It something saith for earthly pain. 
But more for Heavenly promise free. 
That I who was, would shrink to be 
That happy child again. 



THE SOUL'S TRAVELLING. 



H6j7 voepov^ 
neroaai Tap<roa« 



Synesius. 



I DWELL amid the city ever. 
The great humanity which beats 
Its life along the stony streets. 
Like a strong and unsunned river 
In a self-made course, 
I sit and hearken while it rolls. 
Very sad and very hoarse 
Certes is the flow of souls : 
Infmitest tendencies 
By the finite prest and pent. 
In the finite, turbulent 
How we tremble in surprise, 
When sometimes, with an awful sound, 
God's great plummet strikes the 
gromid 1 



The champ of the steeds on the silver 

bit. 
As they whirl the rich man's carriage 

by: 
The beggar's whine as he looks at it, — 
But it goes too fast for charity. 
The trail on the street of the poor man's 

broom. 
That the lady who walks to her palace- 
home, 
On her silken skirt may catch no dust : 
The tread of the business men who 

must 
Count their per cents, by the paces they 

take : 
The cry of the babe unheard of its 

mother 
Though it lie on her breast while she 

thinks of the other 
Laid yesterday where it will not wake. 
The flower-girl's prayer to buy roses and 

pinks. 
Held out in the smoke, like stars by day : 
The gm-door's oath that hollowly chinks - 
Guilt upon grief and wrong upon hate : 
The cabman's cry to get out of the way ; 



THE SOUL'S TRAVELLING. 



53 



The dustman's cry down the area- 
grate : 
The young maid's jest, and the old 

wife's scold, 
The haggling talk of the boys at a stall ; 
The fight in the street which is backed 

for gold. 
The plea of the lawyers in Westniinster 

Hall: 
The drop on the stone of the blind man's 

staff 
Ashe trades in his own griePs sacred- 

ness ; 
The brothel shriek and the Newgate 

laugh. 
The hum upon 'Change, and the organ's 

grinding, 
The grinder's face being nevertheless 
Dry and vacant of even woe, 
While the children's hearts are leaping 

so 
At the merry music's winding ! 
The black-plumed funeral's creeping 

train 
Long and slow (and yet they will go 
As fast as Life though it hurry and 

strain !) 
Creeping the populoi^s houses through 
And nodding their plumes at either 

side, — 
At many a house where an infant, new 
To the sunshiny world, has just struggled 

and cried : 
At many a hoase, where sitteth a bride 
I'rying the morrow's coronals 
jWith a scarlet blush to-day. 
Slowly creep the funerals, 
As none should hear the noise and say, 
J'he living, the living, must go away 
To multiply the dead ! 
Hark ! an upward shout is sent ! 
In grave strong joy from tower to steeple 

The bells ring out — 
The trumpets sound, the people shout, 
The young Queen goes to her parlia- 
ment. 
She tumeth round her large blue eyes 
More bright with childish memories 
Than royal hopes, upon the people : 
Dn either side she bows her head 

Lowly, with a Queenly grace, 
\nd smile most trustin.j-iunocent, 
\s if she smiled upon her mother ! 
The thousands press before each other 



To bless her to her face : 
And booms the deep majestic voice 
Through trump and drum, — ' May the 
Queen rejoice 

In the people's liberties ! ' — 



I dwell amid the city. 
And hear the flow of souls in act 
and speech, 
For pomp or trade, for merrymake or 

folly : 
I hear the confluence and sum of each. 

And that is melancholy ! — 
Thy voice is a complaint, O crowned 

city. 
The blue sky covering thee like God's 
great pity. 



O blue sky I it mindeth me 

Of places where I used to see 

Its vast unbroken circle thrown 

From the far pale-peaked hill 

Out to the last verge of ocean — 

As by God's arm it were done 

Then for the first time, with the emo- 

tion 
Of that first impulse on it still. 
Oh, we spirits fly at will. 
Faster than the winged steed 
Whereof in old book we read. 
With the sunlight foaming back 
From his flanks to a misty wrack; 
And his nostril reddening proud 
As he breasteth the steep thunder- 
cloud ! 
Smoother than Sabrina's chair 
Gliding up from wave to air. 
Which she smileth debonair 
Yet holy, coldly and yet brightly. 
Like her own mooned waters nightly. 
Through her dripping hair. 



Very fast and smooth \^ fly. 
Spirits, though the flesh be by. 
All looks feed not from the eye. 
Nor all hearings from the ear ; 
We can hearken and espy 
Without either ; we can journey. 
Bold and gay as knight to tourney ; 



54 



THE SOUL'S TRAVELLING. 



And though we wear no visor down 
To cark our countenance, the foe 
Shall neVer chafe us as we go. 



I am gone from peopled town ! 
It passeth its street-thunder round 
My body which yet hears no sound : 
For now another sound, another 
Vision, my soul's senses have. 
O'er a hundred valleys deep. 
Where the hills' green shadows sleep, 
Scarce known, because the valley trees 
Cross those upland images — 
O'er a hundred hills, each other 
Watching to the western wave— 
I have travelled, — I have found 
The silent, lone, remembered ground. 



I have found a grassy niche 

Hollowed in a seaside hill. 

As if the ocean -grandeur which 

Is aspectable from the place 

Had struck the hill as with a mace 

Sudden and cleaving. You might fill 

That little nook with the little cloud 

Which sometimes lieth by the moon 

To beautify a night of June : 

A cavelike nook, which, opening all 

To the wide sea, is disallowed 

From its own earth's sweet pastoral ; 

Cavelike, but roofless overhead. 

And made of verdant banks instead 

Of any rocks, with flowerets spread. 

Instead of spar and stalactite 

Such pretty flower s on such green sward, 
You think the sea they look tt)ward 
Doth .serve them for another sky 
As warm and blue as that on high. 



And in this hollow is a seat. 
And when you shall have crept to it. 
Slipping down the banks too steep 
To be o'erbrowzed by the sheep. 
Do not think — though at your feet 
The cliff's disrupt— you shall behold 
The line where earth and ocean meet ; 
You sit too much above to view 
The solemn confluence of the two : 
You can hear them as they greet ; 
You can hear that evermore 



Distance-.softened noise, more old 

Than Nereid's singing,— the tide spent 

Joining soft issues with the shore 

In harmony of discontent, — 

And when you hearken to the grave 

Lamenting of the underwave. 

You must believe in earth's communion. 

Albeit you witness not the union. 



Except the sound, the place is full 

Of silences, which when you cull 

By any word, it thrills you so 

That presently you let them grow 

To meditation's fullest length 

Across your soul with a soul's strength : 

And as they touch your soul, they 

borrow 
Both of its grandeur and its sorrow. 
That deathly colour which the clay 
Leaves on its deathlessness alway. 



Alway ! alway ! must this be 1 
Rapid Soul from city gone. 
Dost thou carry inwardly 
What doth make the city's moan ? 
Must this deep sigh of thine own 
Haunt thee with humanity? 
Green-visioned banks that are too sleep; 
To be o'erbrowzed by the sheep. 
May all sad thoughts adown you creep 
Without a shepherd ?— Mighty se?. 
Can we dwarf thy magnitude. 
And fit it to our straitest mood ?— 
O fair, fair Nature ! are we thus 
Impotent and querulous 
Among thy workings glorious. 
Wealth and sanctitie.s,— that still 
Leave us vacant and defiled, 
And wailing like a soft-kissed child. 
Kissed soft against his will ? 

XI. 

God, God ! 
With a child's voice I cry, 
Weak, sad, confidingly — 
God, God! 
Thou knowest eyelids raised not always 

"P 
Unto Thy love, (as none of ours arc,'), 

droop 
As ours, o'er many a tear I 



SOUNDS. 



Thou knowest, though thy universe is 
broad. 

Two little tears suffice to cover all. 

Thou knowest, — Thou, who art so prodi- 
gal 

Of beauty, — We are oft but stricken 
deer 

Expiring in the woods— that care for 
none 

Of those delightsome flowers they die 
upon. 

XII. 

O blissful Mouth, which breathed the 

mournful breath 
We name our souls, — self-spoilt! — by 

that strong passion 
Which paled thee once with sighs, — by 

that strong death 
Which made thee once unbreathing — 

from the wrack 
Themselves have called around them, 

call them back. 
Back to thee in continuous aspiration ! 

For here, O Lord, 
For here they travel vainly, — vainly 

pass 
From the city pavement to untrodden 

sward. 
Where the lark finds her deep nest in the 

grass 
Cold with the earth's last dew. Yea, 

very vain 
The greatest speed of all the souls of 

men. 
Unless they travel upward to the throne 
Where sittest Thou the satisfying One, 
With help for sins and holy perfectings 
For all requirements — while the archan- 
gel, raising 
Unto Thy face his full ecstatic gazing. 
Forgets the rush and rapture of his 

wings. 



SOUNDS. 

iEsCHVLUS, 



Hearken^ hearken ! 
The rapid river carrieth 



Many noises underneath 

The hoary ocean : 
Teaching his solemnity 
Sounds of inland life and glee. 
Learnt beside the waving tree. 
When the winds in summer prank 
Toss the shades from bank to bank. 
And the quick rains, in emotion 
Which rather gladdens earth than 

grieves, 
Count and visibly rehearse 
The pulse of the universe 
Upon the Summer leaves — 
Learnt among the lilies straight. 
When they bow them to the weight 
Of many bees whose hidden hum 
Seemeth from themselves to come-- 
Learnt among the grasses green. 
Where the rustlmg mice are seen 
By the gleaming, as they run. 
Of their quick eyes in the sim ; 
And lazy sheep are browzing through. 
With their noses trailed in dew ; 
And the squirrel leaps adown. 
Holding fast the filbert brown ; 
And the lark, with more of mirth 
In his song that suits the earth, 
Droppeth some in soaring high. 
To pour the rest out in the sky : 
While the woodland doves, apart 
In the copse's leafy heart. 
Solitary, not ascetic. 
Hidden and yet vocal seem 
Joining in a lovely psalm, 
Man's despondence, nature's calm. 
Half mystical and half pathetic. 
Like a sighing in a dream.* 
All these sounds the river telleth. 
Softened to an undertone 
Which ever and anon he swelleth 



• " While floatinK np briglit forms Weal, 

Miotress, or fiiend, Around nie stream ; 
Half seiige-sup|)Iiefl, and lialf unreal, 

Like music miuglinj; with a dream." 

John Kevyon. 
I do not doubt th.it the "music" of the two 
concludiuR lines miufcled, Ihoush very uncon- 
Bciously, with jny own " dream," and ETJive 
their form and jiressure to the aliove distich. 
The ide.HB, however, heins enfficiently dis- 
tinct, I am satisfied with sending this note to 
the press after my verses, and with acknow- 
ledging another obligation to the valii«d 
friend to whciu I already owe so many. 



SOUNDS. 



By a burden of his own. 

In the ocean's ear. 
Ay ! and ocean seems to hear 
With an inward gentle scorn. 
Smiling to his caverns worn. 



Hearken, hearken 5 , . , 
The child is shouting at his play 
Tust in the tramping funeral s way : 
The widow moans as she turns aside 
To shun the face of the blushing bride 
While, shaking the tower of the ancient 

church. 
The marriage bells do swing : 
And in the shadow 9f the porch 
An idiot sits, with his lean hands full 
Of hedgerow flowers and a poet s skull. 
Laughing loud and gibbering. 
Because it is so brown a thing, _ 
While he sticketh the gaudy poppies red 
In and out the senseless head 
Where all sweet fancies grew >nstead^ 
And you may hear, at the self-same time, 
Another poet who reads his rhyme, 
Low as a brook in the summer air — 
Save when he droppeth his voice adown, 
To dream of the amaranthine crown 
His mortal brows shall wear 
And a baby cries with a feeble sound 
^eath the weary weight of the life 
new-found ; . , , . 

And an old man groans,— with his 

Oni;"S"s;gned.-for the life that's 

spent: 
And lovers twain do softly say. 
As they sit on a grave, ' for aye, for 

And^foemen twain, while Earth their 

mother , u ti,„_ 

Looks greenly upward, curse each other 
A school-boy drones his task, with looks 
Cast over the page to the elm-tree 

rooks : . , J 

A lonely student cries aloud 
Eureka ! clasping at his ^^^'[O"^ • . 
A beldame's age-cracked voice doth smg 
To a litde infant slumbering : 
A maid forgotten weeps alone. 
Moling her sobs on the trysting stone ; 
A sick man wakes at his own mouths 
wail ; 



A gossip coughs in her thrice told tale ; 
A muttering gamester shakes the dice : 
A reaper foretells goodluck from the 

A monarch vows as he lifts his hand to 

them ; . . , j . 

A patriot leaving his native land t* 
them, . J 

Cries to the world against perjured 

state ; 
A priest disserts upon linen skirts ; 
A sinner screams for one hope more ; 
A dancer's feet do palpitate 
A piper's music out on the floor ; _ 
And nigh to the awful Dead, the living 
Low speech and stealthy steps are 

giving. 
Because he cannot hear ; 
And he who on that narrow bier 
Has room enow, is closely wound 
In a silence piercing more than sound. 



111. 
Hearken, hearken ! 
God speaketh to thy soul ; 
Using the supreme voice which doth 

confound r t^ •* 

All life with consciousness oi Deity. 

All senses into one ; 
As the seer-saint of Patmos loving John. 

For whom did backward roll 
The cloud-gate of the future, turned to 

The VoTce which spake. It speaketh , 

ThroughThI regular breath of the calm i 

Througr^h°e" moan of the creature's 

desolation 
Striking, and in its stroke, resembling , 
The memory of a solemn vow. 
Which pierceth the din of a festival 
To one in the midst.— and he letteth tall 
The cup. with a sudden trembling. 

IV. 

Hearken, hearken 1 
God speaketh in thy soul ; 
Saying. • O thou that movest 
With feeble steps across this earth o-^ 

To break beside the fount thy goldei 
bowl 



NIGHT AND THE MERRY MAN 



And spill its purple wine, — 
Look up to heaven and see how like a 

scroll, 
My right hand hath thine immortality 
In aa eternal grasping ! Thou, that 

lovest 
The songful birds and grasses underfoot. 
And also what change mars and tombs 

pollute — 
/ am the end of love ! — give love to me ! 
O thou that sinnest, grace doth more 

abound 
Than all thy sin ! sit still beneath my 

rood. 
And count the droppings of my victim- 
blood. 
And seek none other sound !' 



Hearken, hearken ! 
Shall we hear the lapsing river 
And our brother's sighing ever. 
And not the voice of God ? 



NIGHT AND THE MERRY MAN. 



'Neath my moon what doest thou, 

VVith a somewhat paler brow 

rhan she giveth to the ocean ? 

He, without a pulse or motion, 

Muttering low before her stands. 

Lifting his invoking hands. 

Like a seer before a sprite, 

I'o catch her oracles of light. 

3ut thy soul out-trembles now 

Vlany pulses on thy brow ! 

rVhere be all thy laughters clear, 

)thei-s laughed alone to hear ? 

Vhere. thy quaint jests, said for fame ? 

Vhere, thy dances, mixed with game ? 

Vhere, thy festive companies, 

ioonod o'er with ladie^,' eyes, 

dl more bright for thee, I trow ! 

^Teath my moon, what doest thou ? 



THE MERRY MAN. 

am digging my warm heart, 
'ill I find its coldest part : 



I am digging wide and low 
Further than a spade will go ; 
Till that, when the pit is deep 
And large enough, I there may heap 
All my present pain and past 
Joy, dead things that look aghast 
By the daylight.— Now 'tis done! 
Throw them in, by one and one I 
I must laugh, at rising sun. 

Memories— of fancies golden 

Treasures which my hands have holden, 

Tdl the chillness made them ache : 

Of childhood's hopes, that used to wake 

If birds were in a singing strain. 

And for le-s cause, sleep again": 

Of the moss seat in the wood. 

Where I trysted solitude ! 

Of the hill-top, where the wind 

Used to follow me behind. 

Then in sudden rush to blind 

Both my glad eyes with my hair. 

Taken gladly in the snare ! 

Of the climbing up the rocks, — 

Of the playing 'neath the oaks. 

Which retain beneath them now 

Only shadow of the bough : 

Of the lying on the grass 

While the clouds did overpass. 

Only they, so lightly driven. 

Seeming betwixt me and heaven ! 

Of the little prayers serene. 

Murmuring of earth and sin : 

Of large-leaved philosophy 

Leaning from my childish knee : 

Of poetic book sublime, 

Soul-kissed for the first dear time, — 

Greek or English,— ere I knew 

Life was not a poem too ! 

Throw them in, by one and one ! 

I must laugh, at rising sun. 

Of the glorious ambitions. 
Yet unquenched by their fruitions; 
Of the reading out the nights ; 
Of the straining of mad heights ; 
Of achievements, less descried 
By a dear few, than magnified ; 
Of praises, from the many earned. 
When praise from love was undiscerned : 
Of the sweet reflecting gladness. 
Softened by itself to sadness. — 
Throw them in by one and one ! 
1 must laugh, at rising sun. 



58 



EARTH AND HER PRAISERS. 



What are these ? more, more than these ! 
Throw in, dear memories !— 
Of voices— whereof but to speak, 
Maketh mine all sunk and weak ? 
Of smiles, the thought of which is 

sweeping 
All my soul to floods of weeping ; 
Of looks, whose absence fain would 

weigh 
My looks to the ground for aye , 
Of clasping hands— ah me ! I wring 
Mine and in a tremble fling . . , 

Downward, downward, all this paining ! 
Partings, with the sting remaining ; 
Meetings, with a deeper throe. 
Since the joy is ruined so ; 
Changes, with a fiery burning— 
(Shadows upon all the turning.) 



Thoughts of— with a storm they came— 
Them, I have not breath to name ! 
Downward, downward be they cast. 
In the pit ! and now at last 
My work beneath the moon is done. 
And I shall laugh, at rising sun. 

But let me pause or ere I cover 
All my treasures darkly over. 
I will speak not in thine ears, 
Only tell my beaded tears 
Silently, most silently ! 



When the last is calmly told. 
Let that same moist rosary. 
With the rest sepulchred be. 
Finished now. The darksome mould 
Sealeth up the darksorne pit 
I will lay no stone on it : 
Grasses I will sow instead. 
Fit for Queen Titania's tread ; 
Flowers, encoloured with the sun. 
And ai ai written upon none. 
Thus, whenever saileth by 
The Lady World of dainty eye. 
Not a grief shall here remain. 
Silken shoon to damp or stain : 
And while she lisps. ' I have not seen 
Any place more smooth and clean ' 
Here she cometh !— Ha, ha !— who 
Itaughs as loud as I can do \ 



EARTH AND HER PRAISERS. 



The Earth is old ; 
Six thousand winters make her heart 

a-cold. 
The sceptre slanteth from her palsied 
hold. ^ „ J ^. , 

She saith ' 'Las me '.—God's word that I 
was ' good ' 
Is taken back to heaven. 
From whence when any sound comes, 1 
am riven , , . . . 

By some sharp bolt. And now no angel 

would 
Descend with sweet dew-silence on my 

mountains, 
To glorify the lovely nver-fountains 

That gush along their side. 
I see, O weary change 1 1 see instead 

This human wrath and pride. 
These thrones and tombs, judicial wrong. 

and blood : 
And bitter words are poured upon mine 

head — . . , 

« O Earth ! thou art a stage for tricks 

unholy, , 

A church for most remorseful melan- 
choly ! 
Thou art so spoiled, we should forget we 
had , , 

An Eden inthee,— wert thou not so sad. 
Sweet children, I am old ! ye, every 

one, . 

Do keep me from a portion of my sun : 
Give praise in change for brightness ! 
That I may shake my hills ininfinite- 

ness . 

Of breezy laughter, as m youthful mirth. 
To hear Earth's sons and daughters 
praising Earth.' 



Whereupon a child began. 
With spirit running up to man. 
As by angel's shining ladder, 
(May he find no cloud above !) 
Seeming he had ne'er been sadder 

All his days than now- 
Sitting in the chestnut grove. 
With that joyous overflow 



EARTH AND HER PRAISERS. 



59 



Of smiling from his mouth, o'er brow 
And cheek and chin, as if the breeze 
Leaning tricksy from the trees 
To part his golden hairs, had Ijlown 
Into an hundred smiles that one. 



• O rare, rare Earth ! ' he saith, 

' I will praise thee presently ; 

Not to-day ; I have no breath ! 

I have hunted squirrels three — 
Two ran down in the furzy hollow, 
Where I could not see nor follow ; 
One sits at the top of the filbert tree, 
With a yellow nut, and a mock at me. 

Presently it shall be done. 
When I see which way those two 

have run ; 
When the mocking one at the filbert 

top 
Shall leap a-down, and beside me 
stop ; 
Then, rare Earth, rare Earth, 
Will I pause, having known thy 
worth. 
To say all good of thee ! ' 



Next a lover, with a dream 
'Neath his waking eyelids hidden. 
And a frequent sigh unbidden. 
And an idlesse all the day 
Beside a wandering stream ; 
And a silence that is made 
Of a word he dares not say, — 
Shakes slow his pensive head. 

'Earth, Earth ! ' saith he, 
'If thy spirits, like thy roses, grew 
On one stalk, and winds austere 
Could but only blow them near. 

To share each other's dew ; 
If, when summer rains agree 
To beautify thy hills, I knew 
Looking off them I might see 

Some one very beauteous too, — 
' Then, Earth,* saith he, 
'I would praise . . . nay, nay — not 
thee ! ' 



Will the pedant name her next? 
Crabbed with a crabbed text. 
Sits he in his study nook. 



With his elbow on a book, 
And with stately crossed knees. 
And a wrinkle deeply thrid 
Through his lowering brow. 
Caused by making proofs enow 
That Plato in ' Parmenides ' 
Meant the same Spinosa did ; 
Or, that an hundred of the groping 
Like himself, had made one Homer, 
Honieros being a misnomer. 
What hath he to do with praise 
Of Earth, or aught ? whene'er the 

sloping 
Sunbeams through his window daze 
His eyes off from the learned phrase. 
Straightway he draws close the cur- 
tain. 
May abstraction keep him dumb ! 
Were his lips to ope, 'tis certain 
" Derivatum est " would come. 



Then a mourner moveth pale 
In a silence full of wail, 
Raising not his sunken head. 
Because he wandered last that way 
With that one beneath the clay : 
Weeping not, because that one. 
The only one who would have said, 
' Cease to weep, beloved ! ' has gon« 
Whence returneth comfort none. 
The silence breaketh suddenly, — 
' Earth, I praise thee ! ' crieth he : 
' Thou hast a grave for also me.' 



Ha, a poet 1 know him by 
The ecstasy-dilated eye. 
Not uncharged with tears that ran 
Upward from his heart of man ; 
By the cheek, from hour to hour. 
Kindled bright or sunken wan 
With a sense of lonely power ; 
By the brow, uplifted higher 
Than others, for more low declining 
By the lip which words of fire 
Overboiling, have burned white. 
While they gave the nations light! 
Ay, in every time and place 
Ye may know the poet's face 
By the shade, or shiaing. 



EARTH AND HER PRAISERS. 



'Neath a golden cloud he stands. 

Spreading his impassioned hands. 

' O God's Earth ! ' he saith, ' the sign 

From the Father-soul to mine 

Of all beauteous mysteries. 

Of all perfect images. 

Which, divine in His divine. 

In my human only are 

Very excellent and fair ; — 

Think not. Earth, that I would raise 

Weary forehead in thy praise, 

(Weary that I cannot go 

Farther from thy region lowr,) 

If were struck no richer meanings 

From thee than thyself. The leanings 

Of the cloic trees o'er the brim 

Of a sunshine -haunted stream. 

Have a sound beneath their leaves. 

Not of wind, not of wind. 
Which the poet's voice achieves. 
The faint mountains heaped behind. 
Have a falling on their tops. 

Not of dew, not of dew. 
Which the poet's fancy drops. 
Viewless things his eyes can view : 
Driftings of his dreams do light 
All the skies by day and night : 
And the seas that deepest roll. 
Carry murmurs of his soul. 
E^rth, I praise thee 1 praise thou nte ! 
God perfecteth his creation 
With this recipient poet-passion. 
And makes the beautiful to be. 
I praise thee, O beloved sign, 
From the God -soul unto mine ! 
Praise me, that I cast on thee 
The cunning sweet interpretation. 
The help and glory and dilation 

Of mine immortality I ' 



There wai silence. None did dare 
To use again the spoken air 
Of that far-charming voice, until 
A Christian resting on the hill, 
With a thoughtful smile subdued 
(Sieming learnt in solitude) 
Which a weeper might have viewed 
Without new tears, did softly say. 
And looked up unto heaven alway 
While he praised the Earth — 



'O Earth, 
I count the praises thou art worth. 
By thy waves that move aloud. 
By thy hills against the cloud. 
By thy valleys warm and green. 
By thy copses' elms between ; 
By their birds which, like a sprite 
Scattered by a strong delight 
Into fragments musical. 
Stir and sing in every bush ; 
By thy silver founts that fall. 
As if to entice the stars at night 
To thine heart ; by grass and rush. 
And little weeds the children pull. 
Mistook for flowers 1 

— Oh, beautiful 
Art thou. Earth, albeit worse 
Than in heaven is called good I 
Good to u?, that we may know 
Meekly from thy good to go ; 
While the holy, crying Blood 
Puts its music kind and low, 
'Twixt such ears as are not dull» 
And thine ancient ciurse 1 



' Praised be the mosses soft 

In thy forest pathways oft. 

And the thorns, which make us think 

Of the thomless river-brink. 

Where the ransomed tread I 
Praised be thy sunny gleams. 
And the storm, that worketh dreams 

Of calm unfinished I 
Praised be thine active days. 
And thy night-time's solemn need. 
When in God's dear book we read 

No night shall be therein. 
Praised be thy dwellings warm. 
By household fagot's cheerful blaze. 
Where, to hear of pardoned sin, 
Pauseth oft the merry din. 
Save the babe's upon the arm. 
Who croweth to the crackling wood. 
Yea, — and better understood. 
Praised be thy dwellings cold. 
Hid beneath the churchyard mould. 
Where the bodies of the saints. 
Separate from earthly taints, 
Lie asleep, in blessing bound. 
Waiting for the trumpet's sound 
To free them into blessing ; — none 
Weeping more beneath the sun. 



THE VIRGIN MARY TO THE CHILD JESUS. 



Though dangeroas words of human love 
Be graven very near, above. 



'Earth, we Christians praise thee thus. 
Even for the change that comes. 
With a grief, from thee to us ! 
For thy cradles and thy tombs ; 
For the pleasant com and wine. 
And summer- ijcat ; and also for 
The frost upon the sycamore, 
And hail upon the vine 1' 



THE VIRGIN MARY TO THE 
CHILD JESUS. 

But see, the Virgin West 
Hatb laid her babe to rest. 

Milton's Uymn on the Nativity. 



Sleep, sleep, mine Holy One I 
My flesh, my Lord ! — what name ? I do 

not know 
A name that seemeth not too high or 
low, 
Too far from me or Heaven. 
My Jesus, ^/lai is best I that word being 

given 
By the majestic angel whose command 
Was softly as a man's beseeching said, 
When I and all the earth appeared to 
stand 
In the great overflow 
Of light celestial from his wings and 
head. 
Sleep, sleep, my saving One I 



And art Thou come for saving, baby- 
browed 

And speechless Being — art Thou come 
for saving ? 

The palm that grows beside our door is 
bowed 

By treadings of the low wind from the 
south, 

A restless shadow through the chamber 
waving : 

Upon its bough a bird sings in the sun ; 

But Thou, with that close slumber on 
thy mouth, 



I Dost seem of wind and sun already 
weary. 
Art come for saving, O my weary One ? 



Perchance this sleep that shuttelh out 

the dreary 
Earth-sounds and motions, opens on Thy 

soul 
High dreams on fire with God ; 
High songs that make the pathways 

where they roll 
More bright than stars do theirs; and 

visions new 
Of Thine eternal Nature's old abode. 
Suff"er this mother's kiss. 
Best thing that earthly is. 
To guide the music and the glory 

through. 
Nor narrow in Thy dream the broad up- 
liftings 
Of any seraph wing ! 
Thus, noiseless, thus. Sleep, sleep, my 
dreaming One I 



The slumber of His lips meseems to run 
Through my lips to mine heart ; to all 

its shiftings 
Of sensual life, bringing contrariousness 
In a great calm. I feel, I could- lie 

down 
As Moses did, and die,* — and then live 

most. 
I am 'ware of you, heavenly Presences, 
That stand with your peculiar light un- 

lost. 
Each forehead with a high thought for 

a crown, 
Unsunned i' the sunshine ! I am 'ware. 

Yet throw 
No shade against the wall f How mo- 
tionless 
Ye round me with your living statuarj% 
While through your whiteness, in and 

outwardly, <. 

Continual thoughts of God appear to go, 
Like light's soul in itself! I bear, I 
bear. 



• It is a Jewish tradition tliat Moaes died of 
the kisaes of Ood'a lipa 



6a 



THE VIRGIN MARY TO THE CHILD JESUS. 



To look upon the dropt lids of your eyes, 
Though their external shining testifies 
To that beatitude within, which were 
Enough to blast an eagle at his sun. 
I fall not on my sad clay face before ye ; 

I look on His. I know 
My spirit which dilateth with the woe 

Of His mortality. 

May well contain your glory. 

Yea, drop your lids more low. 
Ye are but fellow-worshippers with me I 

Sleep, sleep, my worshipped One I 



We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem. 
The dumb kine from their fodder turning 
them, 

Softened their horned faces 

To almost human gazes 

Towards the newly Born. 
The simple shepherds from the star-lit 
brooks 

Brought visionary looks, 
As yet in their astonished hearing rung 

The strange, sweet angel-tongue. 
The magi of the East, in sandals worn. 

Knelt reverent, sweeping round. 
With long pale beards their gifts upon 
the ground, 

The incense, myrrh and gold, 
These baby hands were impotent to 

hold. 
So, let all earthlies and celestials wait 

Upon thy royal state ! 

Sleep, sleep, my kingly One 1 



1 am not proud — meek angels, ye invest 
New meeknesses to hear such utterance 

rest 
On mortal lips, — ' I am not proud ' — tiot 

proud ! 
Albeit in my flesh God sent His Son, 
Albeit over Him my head is bowed 
As others bow before Him, still mine 

heart 
Bows lower than their knees. O centu- 
ries 
That roll, in vision, your futurities 

My future grave athwart, — 
Whose murmurs seem to reach me while 
I keep 
Watch o'er this sleep, — 



Say of me as the Heavenly said, — ' Thou 

art 
The blessedest of women 1 ' — blessedest. 
Not holiest, not noblest — no high name. 
Whose height misplaced may pierce me 

like a shame. 
When I sit meek in heaven 1 

VII. 

For me — for me — 
God knows that I am feeble like the 

rest!— 
I often wandered forth, more child than 

maiden. 
Among the midnight hills of Galilee, 

Whose summits looked heaven-laden ; 
Listening to silence as it seemed to be 
God's voice, so soft yet strong — so fain 

to press 
Upon my heart as Heaven did on the 

height. 
And waken up its shadows by a light. 
And show its vileness by a holiness. 
Then I knelt down most silent like the 

night. 
Too self-renounced for fears. 
Raising my small face to the boundless 

blue 
Whose stars did mix and tremble in my 

tears. 
God heard them falling after — with His 

dew. 



So, seeing my corruption, can I see 
This Incorruptible now born of me — 
This fair new Innocence no sun did 

chance 
To shine on, (for even Adam was no 

child,) 
Created from my nature all defiled, 
This mystery from out mine ignorance — 
Nor feel the blindness, stain, corruption, 

more 
Than others do, or / did heretofore ? — 
Can hands wherein such burden pure has 

been. 
Not open with the cry 'unclean un- 
clean ! ' 
More oft than any else beneath the 
skies ? 
Ah King, ah Christ, ah son ! 
The kine, the shepherds, the abased 



MEMORY AND HOPE. 



63 



Must all less lowly wait 
Than I, upon thy state ! — 
Sleep, sleep, my kingly One I 



Art Thou a King, then? Come, His 
universe. 
Come, crown me Him a king ! 
Pluck rays from all such stars as never 
fling 
Their light where fell a curse. 
And make a crowning for this kingly 

brow 1 — 
What is my word ? — Each empyreal 
star 
Sits in a sphere afar 
In shining ambuscade : 
The child-brow, crowned by none, 
Keeps its unchildlike shade. 
Sleep, sleep, my crownle^s One 1 



Unchildlike shade 1 — no other babe doth 
wear 

An aspect very sorrowful, as Thou. — 

No small babe-smiles, my watching heart 
has seen. 

To float like speech the speechless lips 
between ; 

No dovelike cooing in the golden air, 

No quick short joys of leaping baby- 
hood. 
Alas, our earthly good 

In heaven thought evil, seems too good 
for Thee: 
Yet, sleep, my weary One I 



And then the drear sharp tongue of 

prophecy. 
With the dread sense of things which 

shall be done. 
Doth smite me inly, like a sword — a 

sword ? — 
( That • smites the Shepherd I ') then, I 

think aloud 
The words ' despised,' — ' rejected,' — 

every word 
Recoiling into darkness as I view 

The Darling on my knee. 
Bright angels, — move not ! — lest ye stir 

the cloud 
Betwixt my soul and His futurity ! 



must not die, with mother's work to 

do, 
And could not live — and see. 



It is enough to bear 
This image still and fair — 
This holier in sleep, 
Than a saint at prayer : 
This aspect of a child 
Who never sinned or .smiled — 
This presence m an infant's face : 
This sadness most like love, 
This love tlian love more deep, 
This weakness like omnipotence. 
It is so .strong to move ! 
Awful is this watching place. 
Awful what I see from hence — 
A king, witliout regalia, 
A God, without the thunder, 
A child, without the heart for play ; 
Ay, a Creator rent asunder 
From his first glory and cast away 
On His own world, for me alone 
To hold in hands created, crying — Son ! 

XIII. 

That tear fell not on Thee 
Beloved, yet Thou stirrest in thy slum- 
ber 1 
Thou, stirring not for glad sounds out oi 

number 
Which through the vibratory palm tree* 
run 
From summer wind and bird. 
So quickly hast Thou heard 
A tear fall silently ? — 
Wak'st Thou, O loving One ?— 



MEMORY AND HOPE. 



Back-looking Memory 
And prophet Hope both sprang from 

out the ground :*• 
One, where the flashing of Cherubic 
sword 
Fell sad, in Eden's ward ; 
And one, from Eden earth, within the 

sound 
Of the four rivers lapsing pleasantly. 



64 



MEMORY AND HOPE. 



What time the promise after curse was 
said — 
•Thy seed shall bruise his head.' 



Poor Memory's brain is wild. 
As moonstruck by that flaming 

atmosphere 
When she was born. Her deep eyes 
shine and shone 
With light that conquereth sun 
And stars to wanner paleness year by 

year : 
With odorous gums, she mixeth things 

defiled : 
She trampleth down earth's grasses 
green and sweet 
With her far-wandering feet. 



She plucketh many flowers, 
Their beauty on her bosom's coldness 

killing : 
She teacheth every melancholy sound 

To winds and waters round : 
She droppeth tears with seed where 

man is tilling 
The rugged soil in his exhausted hours : 
She smileth— ah me ! in her smile doth 
go 
A mood of deeper woe ! 



Hope tripped on out of sight 
Crowned with an Eden wreath she saw 

not wither. 
And went a-nodding through the wilder- 
ness 
With brow that shone no less 
Than a sea -gull's wing, brought nearer 

by rough weather ; 
Searching the treeless rock for fruits of 

light ; 
Her fair quick feet bemg armed from 
stones and cold. 
By slippers of pure gold. 



Memory did Hope much wrong 
And, while she dreamed, her slippers 
stole away ; 



But still she wended on with mirth 
unheeding. 
Although her feet were bleeding ; 
Till Memory tracked her on a certain 

day, 
And with most evil eyes did search her 

long 
And cruelly, whereat she sank to ground 
In a stark deadly swound. 



And so my Hope were slain, 
Had it not been that thou wert 

standing near. 
Oh Thou, who saidest ' live ' to creatures 
lying 
In their own blood and dying ! 
For Thou her forehead to thine heart 

didst rear 

And make its silent pulses sing agam,— • 

Pouring a new light o'er her darkened 

eyne, ^^ . 

With tender tears from Thme I 



Therefore my Hope arose 
From out her swound, and gazed upon 

Thy face ; 
And, meeting there that soft subdumg 
look 
Which Peter's spirit shook. 
Sank downward in a rapture to embrace 
Thy pierced hands and feet with kisses 

close, 
And prayed Thee to assist her evermore 
To ' reach the things before.' 



Then gavest Thou the smile 
Whence angel-wings thrill quick like 

summer lightning. 
Vouchsafing rest beside Thee, where 
she never 
From Love and Faith may sever ; 
Whereat the Eden crown she saw not 

whitening 
A time ago, though whitening all the 

while. 
Reddened with life, to hear the Voice 
which talked 
To Adam as he walked. 



A PORTRAIT. 



H 



A PORTRAIT. 

••One name la Elizabeth."— Ben Jonson. 

I WILL paint her as I see her : 
Ten times have the lilies blown. 
Since she looked upon the sun. 

Aiid her face is lily-clear — 

Lily-shaped, and drooped in duty 
To the law of its own beauty. 

Oval cheeks encolored faintly, 
Which a trail of golden hair 
Keeps from fading off to air : 

And a forehead fair and saintly, 
\Vhich two blue eyes undershine. 
Like meek prayers before a shrine. 

Face and figure of a child, — 

Though too calm, you think, and ten- 
der. 
For the childhood you would lend her. 

Yet child -simple, imdefiled, 
Frank, obedient, — waiting still 
On the turnings of your will. 

Moving light, as all yoimg things — 
As young birds, or early wheat 
When the wind blows over it. 

Only free from flutterings 

Of loud mirth that scometh measure — 
Taking love for her chief pleasure : 

Choosing pleasures (for the rest) 
Which come softly — just as she. 
When she nestles at your knee. 

Quiet talk she liketh best. 
In ai bower of gentle looks, — 
Watering flowers, or reading books. 

And her voice, it murmurs lowly. 
As a silver stream may run. 
Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. 

And her smile, it seems half holy. 
As if drawn from thoughts more fair 
Than our common jestings are. 



And if any poet knew her, 

He would sing of her with falls 
Used in lovely madrigals. 

And if any painter drew her. 
He would pain't her unaware 
With a halo round her hair. 

And if reader read the poem. 

He would whisper—* You have done a 
Consecrated little Una 1 ' 

And a dreamer (did you show him 
That same picture) would exclaim, 
' 'Tis my angel, with a name ! ' 

And a stranger, — when he sees her 
In the street even— smileth stilly, 
Just s& you would at a lily. 

And all voices that address her. 
Soften, sleeken every word. 
As if speaking to a bird. 

And all fancies yearn to cover 

The hard earth whereon she passes 
With the thymy scented grasses. 

And all hearts do pray, 'God love her 1' ^ 
Ay, and always, in good sooth. 
We may all be sure He doth. 



HECTOR IN THE GARDEN. 



Nine years old ! The first of any 
Seem the happiest years that come : 
Yet when / was nine, I said 
No such word I — I thought instead 

That the Greeks had used as many 
In besieging Ilium. 



Nine green years had scarcely brought 
me 
To my childhood's haunted spring : 
I had life, like flowers and bees 
In betwixt the country trees ; 

And the sun the pleasure taught me 
Which he teacheth every thing. 



66 



HECTOR IN THE GARDEN. 



If the rain fell, there was sorrow 
Little head leant on the pane, 
Little finger drawing down it 
The long trailing drops upon it. 

And the ' Rain, rain, come to-morrow. 
Said for charm against the ram. 



Such a charm was right Canidian, 
Though you meet it with a jeer 
If I said it long enough. 
Then the rain hummed dimly off, 

And the thrush with his pure Lydian 
Was left only to the ear : 



And the sun and I together 
Went a-rushing out of doors : 
We, our tender spirits, drew 
Over hill and dale in view. 

Glimmering hither, gUmmenng thither. 
In the footsteps of the showers. 



Underneath the chestnuts drippmg, 
Through the grasses wet and fair. 
Straight I sought my garden-ground. 
With the laurel on the mound, 

And the pear tree oversweepmg 
A side-shadow of green air. 



In the garden lay supinely 

A huge giant wrought of spade ! 
Arms and legs were stretched at length 
In a passive giant strength,— 

And the meadow turf, cut finely. 
Round them laid and interlaid. 



Call him Hector, son of Priam ! 

Such his title .ind degree. 

With my rake I smoothed his brow 

Both his cheeks I weeded through : 
But a rhymer such as I am, 

Scarce can sing his dignity. 



Eyes of gentianellas azure, 

Staring, winking at the skies ; 

Nose of gillyflowers and box ; 

Scented grasses put for locks— 
Which a little breeze, at pleasure. 

Set a-vWiiving round his eyes. 



Brazen helm of daffodillies. 

With a glitter toward the light ; 
Purple violets for the mouth. 
Breathing perfumes west and south. 

And a sword of flashing lilies, 
Holden ready for the fight. 



And a breastplate made of daisies. 

Closely fitting, leaf by leaf ; 

Periwinkles interlaced 

Drawn for belt around the waist ; 
While the brown bees, humming praises. 

Shot their arrows round the chief. 



And who knows (I sometimes won- 
dered,) 
If the disembodied soul 
Of old Hector, once of Troy, 
Might not take a dreary joy 

Here to enter— if it thundered. 
Rolling up the thiinder-roll ? 



Rolling this way from Troy-nun, 
In this body rude and rife 
He might enter, and take rest 
'Neath the daisies of the breast- 

They, with tender roots, renewing 
His heroic heart to life. 



Who could know ? I sometimes started 

At a motion or a sound ! 

Did his mouth speak— naming Troy. 

With an ototototoi ? 
Did the pulse of the Strong-hearted 

Make the daisies tremble round? 



A VALEDICTION. 



67 



It was hard to answer, often : 
But the birds sang in the tree — 
But the Httle birds sang bold 
In the pear-tree green and old ; 

And my terror seemed to soften 
Through the courage of their glee. 



Oh, the birds, the tree, the ruddy 
And white blossoms, sleek with rain 
Oh, my garden, rich with pansies ! 
Oh, my childhood's bright romances ! 

All revive like Hector's body. 
And I see them stir again ! 



XVII. 

And despite life's changes — chances. 
And despite the deathbell's toil. 
They press on me in full seeming ! 
Help, some angel ! stay this dream- 
ing ! 

As the birds sang in the branches. 
Sing God's patience through my soul ! 

XVIII. 
That no dreamer, no neglecter 

Of the present's work unsped, 

I may wake up and be doing. 

Life's heroic ends pursuing. 
Though my past is dead as Hector, 

And though Hector is twice dead. 



A VALEDICTION. 

God be with thee my beloved, — God be 
with thee 1 
Else alone thou goest forth. 
Thy face unto the north. 
Moor and pleasance all around thee and 
beneath thee 
Looking equal in one snow ! 
While 1 who try to reach thee. 
Vainly follow, vainly follow, 



With the farewell and the hollo. 
And cannot reach thee so. 
Alas ! I can but teach thee. 
God be with thee my beloved, — God be 
with thee ! 



Can I teach thee, my beloved — can I 
teach thee ? 
If 1 said. Go left or right. 
The counsel would be light. 
The wisdom, poor of all that could en- 
rich thee ! 
My right would show like left ; 
My raising would depress thee. 
My choice of light would blind thee. 
Of way, would leave behind thee. 
Of end, would leave bereft ! 
Alas ! I can but bless thee — 
May God teach thee my beloved, — may 
God teach thee ! 



Can I bless thee, my beloved, — can I 
bless thee ? 
What blessing word can I, 
From mine own tears, keep dry ? 
What flowers grow in my field where- 
with to dress thee ? 
My good reverts to ill ; 
My calmnesses would move thee, 
My softnesses would prick thee. 
My bmdings up would break thee. 
My crownings, curse and kill. 
Alas ! I can but love thee. 
May God bless thee my beloved, — may 
God bless thee ! 



Can I love thee, my beloved, — can 1 
love thee ? 
And is this like love, to stand 
With no help in my hand, 
When strong as death I fain would walcli 
above thee ? 
My love-kiss can deny 
No tears that fall beneath it : 
Mine oath of love can swear thee 
From no ill that comes near thee, — 
And thou diest while I breathe it. 
And I — / can but die 1 
May God love thee my beloved, — may 
God love thee 1 



THE SLEEP. 



A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF GOD. 



They say that God lives very high ! 

But if you look above the pines 
You cannot see our God. And why ? 



And if you dig down in the mines 
You never see Him in the gold. 
Though from Him all that's glory shines. 



God is so good. He wears a fold 

Of heaven and earth across his face — 
Like secrets kept, for love, untold. 



But still I feel that His embrace 

Slides down by thrills, through all 

things made. 
Through sight and sound of every 

place : 



As if my tender mother laid 

On my shut lids, her kisses' pressure. 
Half- waking me at night ; and said 

* Who kissed you through the dark, 
dear guesser ? * 



THE SLEEP. 

He givctli Ills lielovoil sleep. — Psalm cxxvil. 2. 



Of all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar, 
Along the Psalmist's music deep. 
Now tell me if that any is. 
For gift or grace, surpassing this — 
• He giveth His beloved, sleep ? ' 



What would we give to our beloved ? 
The hero's heart, to be unmoved. 
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep. 
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse. 



The monarch's crown, to light lh« 

brows ? — 
' He giveth H/s beloved, sleep.' 



What do we give to our beloved ? 

A little faith all undisproved, 

A little diLst to overweep, 

And bitter memories to make 

The whole earth blasted for our sake. 

' He giveth I/is beloved, sleep.' 



• Sleep soft, beloved ! ' we sometimes 

say 
But have no tune to charm away 
Sad dreams that through the eyelids 

creep 
But never doleful dream again 
Shall break the happy slumber when 
' He giveth H/s beloved, sleep.' 



O earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
O men, with wailing in your voices 1 
O delved gold, the wailers heap ! 
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! 
God strikes a silence through you all. 
And 'giveth His beloved, sleep.' 



His dews drop mutely on the hill. 
His cloud above it saileth still. 
Though on its slope men sow and reap. 
More softly than the dew is shed, 
Or cloud is floated overhead, 
' He giveth His beloved, sleep.' 



Ay, men may wonder while they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man. 
Confirmed in such a rest to keep ; 
But angels say, and through the word 
I think their happy smile is heard — 
' He giveth His beloved, sleep 1 ' 



For me, my heart that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show. 
That sees through tears the mummers 
leap, 



A SEASIDE WALK. 



C9 



Would now its wearied vision close. 
Would childlike on His love repose. 
Who ' giveth His beloved, sleep I ' 



/And, friends, dear friends, — when it 
/ shall be 

I That this low breath is gone from me, 
1 And round my bier ye come to weep, 
\ 1-et one, most loving of you all. 
Say, ' Not a tear must o'er her fall — 
He giveth His beloved, sleep.* 



MAN AND NATURE. 

A SAD man on a summer day 
Did look upon the earth and say — 

' Purple cloud the hill-top binding ; 
Folded hills, the valleys wind in ; 
Valleys, with fresh streams among you ; 
Streams, with bosky trees along you ; 
Trees, with many birds and blossoms ; 
Birds, with music-trembling bosoms ; 
Blossoms, dropping dews that wreath 

you 
To your fellow flowers beneath you ; 
Flowers, that constellate on earth ; 
Earth, that shakest to the mirth 
Of the merry Titan ocean. 
All his shining hair in motion 1 
Why am I thus the only one 
Who can be dark beneath the sun 1 ' 

But when the summer day was past. 
He looked to heaven and smiled at last. 
Self answered so — 

' Because, O cloud. 
Pressing with thy crumpled shroud 
Heavily on mountain top ; 
Hills that almost seem to drop. 
Stricken with a misty death 
To the valleys underneath ; 
Valleys, sighing with the torrent ; 
Waters, streaked with branches hor- 
rent ; 
Branchless trees, that shake your head 
Wildly o'er your blossoms spread 
Where the common flowers are found ; 
Flowers, with foreheads to the ground ; 



Ground, that shriekest while the tea 

With his iron smiteth thee— 

I am, besides, the only one 

Who can be bright without the sun.' 



A SEA-SIDE WALK. 



We walked beside the sea 
After a day which perished silently 
Of its own glory — like the Prmcess 

weird 
Who, combating the Genius, scorched 

and seared. 
Uttered with burning breath, ' Ho ! vic- 
tory ! ' 
And sank adown an heap of ashes pale. 
So runs the Arab tale. 



The sky above as showed 
An universal and unmoving cloud. 
On which the cliffs permitted us to see 
Only the outline of their majesty. 
As master minds, when gazed at by the 

crowd ! 
And, shining with a gloom, the water 
grey 
Swang in its moon-taught way. 



Nor moon, nor stars were out. 
They did not dare to tread so soon about. 
Though trembling, in the footsteps of the 

sun. 
The light was neither night's nor day's, 

but one 
Which, life-like, had a beauty in its 

doubt : 
And Silence's impassioned breathings 

round 
Seemed wandering into sound. 



O solemn-beating heart 
Of nature ! I have knowledge that thou 

art 
Bound unto man's by cords he cannot 

sever — 
And, what time they are slackened by 

him ever. 



7° 



MV DOVES. 



So to attest his own supernal part. 
Still runneth thy vibration fast and 
strong. 
The slackened cord along. 



For though we never spoke 
Of the grey water and the shaded rock. 
Dark wave and stone unconsciously 

were fused 
Into the plaintive speaking that we used 
Of absent friends and memories unfor- 

sook ; 
And, had we seen each other's face, we 
had 
Seen haply, each was sad. 



THE SEA-MEW. 

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO M. E. H. 



How joyously the young sea-mew 
Lay dreaming on the waters blue, 
Whereon our little bark had thrown 
A forward shade, the only one. 
But shadows ever man pursue. 



Familiar with the waves and free 
As if their own white foam were he, 
His heart upon the heart of ocean 
Lay learning all its mystic motion. 
And throbbinsr to the throbbing s«a. 



And such a brightness in his eye, 
As if the ocean and the sky 
Within him had lit up and nurst 
A soul God gave him net at first. 
To comprehend thcT majesty. 



We were not cruel, yet did sunder 
His white wing from the blue waves 

under, 
And bound it, while his fearless eyes 
Shone up to ours in calm surprise. 
As deeming us some ocean wonder ! 



We bore our ocean bird unto 
A grassy place, where he might view 
The flowers that curtsey to the bees, 
The waving of the tall green trees, 
The falling of the silver dew. 



But flowers of earth were pale to him 
Who had seen the rainbow fishes swim ; 
And when earth's dew around him lay 
He thought of ocean's winged spray. 
And his eye waxed sad and dim. 



The green treesround him only made 
A prison with their darksome shade : 
And drooped his wing, and mourned he 
For his own boundless glittering sea — 
Albeit he knew not they could fade. 



Then One her gladsome face did bring. 
Her gentle voice's murmuring. 
In ocean's stead his heart to move 
And teach him what was human love — 
He thought it a strange, mournful thing. 



He lay down in his grief to die, 
(First looking to the sea-like sky 
That hath no waves!) because, alas I 
Our human touch did on him pass. 
And with our touch, our agony. 



MY DOVES. 

O Weieheit 1 Du red'st wio einc Taube ! 
GoKTni' 

Mv little doves have left a nest 

Upon an Indian tree, 
Whose leaves fantastic take their rest. 

Or motion from the sea : 
For, ever there, the sea-winds go 
With sun-lit paces to and fro. 

The tropic flowers looked up to it. 

The tropic stars looked down. 
And there my little doves did sit. 



TO MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 



With feathers softly brown, 
And glittering eyes that showed their 

right 
To general Nature's deep delight. 

And God them taught, at every close 
Of murmuring waves beyond, 

And green leaves round, to interpose 
Their choral voices fond ; 

Interpreting that love must be 

The meaning of the eartli and sea. 

Fit ministers ! Of living loves, 
Theirs hath the calmest fashion ; 

Their living voice the likest moves 
To lifeless intonation. 

Their lovely monotone of springs 

And winds and such insensate thing.s. 

My little doves were ta'en away 
From that glad ne.st of theirs. 

Across an ocean rolling grey. 
And tempest-clouded airs. 

My little doves ! — who lately knew 

The sky and wave by warmth and blue 1 

And now, within the city prison. 

In mist and chillness pent. 
With sudden upward look they listen 

For sounds of past content — 
For lapse of water, swell of breeze. 
Or nut-fruit falling from the trees. 

The stir without the glow of passion — 

The triumph of the mart — 
The gold and silver as they clash on 

Man's cold and metallic heart — 
The roar of wheels, the cry for bread, — 
These only sounds are heard instead. 

Yet still, as on my human hand 
Their fearless heads they lean. 

And almost seem to understand 
What human musings mean — 

(Their eyes with such a plaintive shine. 

Are fastened upwardly to mine !) 

Soft falls their chant as on the nest. 

Beneath the sunny zone ; 
For love that stirred it in their breast 

Has not aweary grown. 
And 'neath the city's shade can keep 
The well o' music clear and deep. 



And love that keeps the music, fills 

With pastoral memories ; 
All cchoings from out the hills. 

All droppings from the skies. 
All flowings from the wave and wind. 
Remembered in their chant, I find. 

So teach ye me the wisest part, 

My little doves 1 to move 
Along the city-ways with heart 

Assured by holy love. 
And vocal with such songs as own 
A fountain to the world unknown. 

'Twas hard to sing by Babel's stream- 
More hard, in Babel's street ! 

But if the soulless creatures deem 
Their music not unmeet 

For sunless walls — let us begin. 

Who wear immortal wings within ! 

To me, fair memories belong 
Of scenes that used to ble.ss ; 

F'or no regret, but present song. 
And lasting thankfulness ; 

And very soon to break away. 

Like types, in purer things than they. 

I will have hopes that cannot fade. 
For flowers the valley yields : 

I will have humble thoughts instead 
Of silent dewy fields ; 

My spirit and my God shall be 

My sea-ward hill, my boundless sea ! 



TO MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 

IN HER GARDEN. 

What time I lay these rhymes ancar 

thy feet. 
Benignant friend! I will not proudly 

say 
As better poets use, ' These ^^t/^r.? I 

lay,' 
Because I would not wrong thy roses 

sweet. 
Blaspheming so their name. And yet, 

repeat 
Thou, overleaning them this sprijigtime 

day, 



A SONG AGAINST SINGING. 



With heart as open to love as iheii-s to 

May, 
'Low-rooted verse may reach some 

heavenly heat. 
Even like my blossoms, if as nature- 
true. 
Though not as precious.' Thou art un- 

perplext. 
Dear friend, in vi^hose dear writings 

drops the dew 
And blow the natural airs; thou, who 

art next 
To nature's self in cheering the world's 

view. 
To preach a sermon on so known a text ! 



THE EXILE'S REITJRN. 



When from thee, weeping I removed. 
And from my land for years, 

I thought not to return. Beloved, 
With those same parting tears. 

I come again to hill and lea. 
Weeping for thee. 



I clasped thy hand when standing last 

Upon the shore in sight. 
The land is green, the ship is fast, 

1 shall be there to night ! 
/ shall be there — no longer ivc — 

No more wiUi thee. 



Had I beheld thee dead and still, 

I might more clearly know. 
How heart of thine could turn as chill 

As hearts by nature so ; 
How change could touch the falsehood- 
free 

And changeless ihet ! 



But now thy fervid looks last-seen 

Within my soul remain, 
Tis hard to think that they have been. 

To be no more again — 
That I sliall vainly wait— ah me I 

A word from thee. 



I ^• 

I could not bear to look upon 

'I'hat mound of funeral clay. 
Where one sweet voice is silence, — one 

.(Ethereal brow decay ; 
Where all thy mortal 1 may see. 

But never thee. 



For thou art where all friends are gone 
Whose parting pain is o'er : 

And 1 who love and weep alone. 
Where thou wilt weep no more. 

Weep bitterly and selfishly. 
For me, not thee. 



I know. Beloved, thou canst not know 

That I endure this pain ! 
For saints in Heaven, the Scripture^ 
show 
Can never grieve again — 
And grief known mine, even there, 
would be 
Still shared by thee 1 



A SONG AGAINST SINGING. 

TO E. J. H. 



They bid me sing to- thee. 

Thou golden-haired and silver-voiced 
child. 

With lips by no worse sigh than sleep's 
defiled ; 

With eyes unknowing how tears dim the 
sight ; 

With feet all trembling at the new de- 
light 
Treaders of earth to be ! 



Ah no ! the lark may bring 
A song to thee from out the morning 

cloud ; 
The merry river from its lilies bowed ; 
The brisk rain from the trees ; the lucky 

wind. 



COWPER'S CRAVE. 



11 



That half doth make its music, half doth 
find : 
But / — I may not sing. 



How could I think it right, 
I^ew-comer on our earth as, Sweet, thou 

art, 
To bring a verse from out a human heart 
Made heavy with accumulated tears. 
And cross with such amount of weary 
years 
The day-sum of delight ? 



E'en if the verse were said. 

Thou, who wouldst clap thy tiny hands 
to hear 

The wind or rain, gay bird or river 
clear, 

"Wouldst, at that sound of sad humani- 
ties. 

Upturn thy bright uncomprehending 
eyes 
And bid me play instead. 



Therefore no song of mine 1 
But prayer in place of singing 1 prayer 

that would 
Commend thee to the new-creating God, 
Whose gift in childhood's heart without 

its stain 
Of weakness, ignorance, and changing 
vain — 
That gift of God be thine 1 

VI. 

So wilt thou_aye be young. 
In lovelier childhood than thy shining 

brow 
And pretty winning accents make thee 

now ! 
Yea, sweeter than this scarce articulate 

sound 
(How sweet !) of ' father,' ' mother,' 

shall be found 
The Abba on thy tongue. 



And so, as years shall chase 
Each others' shadows, thou wilt less 
resemble 



Thy fellows of the earth, wlio toil and 

tremble. 
Than him thou seest nut, thine angel 

bold 
Yet meek, whose ever-lifted eyes behold 
The Ever-loving's face. 



COWPER'S GRAVE. 



It is a place where poets crowned may 

feel the heart's decaying. 
It is a place where happy saints may 

weep amid their praying : 
Yet let the grief and humbleness, as 

low as silence languish ! 
Earth surely now may give her calm to 

whom she gave her anguish. 



O poets ! from a maniac's tongue was 

poured the deathless singing ! 
O Christians ! at your cross of hope, a 

hopeless hand v/as clinging ! 
O men ! this man in brotherhood your 

weary paths beguiling, 
Groaned inly whife he taught you peace, 

and died while ye were smiling I 



And now, what time ye all may read 

through dimming tears his story. 
How discord on the music fell, and 

darkness on the glory, 
And how when one by one, sweet 

sounds and wandering lights departed. 
He wore no less a loving face because so 

brokenhearted ; 



He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's 

high vocation, *■ 
And bow the meekest Christian down 

in meeker adoration ; 
Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise 

or good forsaken ; 
Named softly as the household name of 

one whom God hath taken. 



COWPER'S GRAVE. 



With quiet sadness and no gloom I 

learn to think upon him, 
With meekness that is gratefulness to 

God whose heaven hath won him — 
Who suffered once the madness-cloud to 

His own love to blind him ; 
But gently led the blind along where 

breath and bird could find him ; 



And wrought within his shattered brain 

such quick poetic senses 
As hills have language for, and stars, 

harmonious influences I 
The pulse of dew upon the grass, kept 

his within its number ; 
And silent shadows from the trees 

refreshed him like a slumber. 



Wild timid hares were drawn from 

woods to share his home-caresses, 
Uplookmg to his human eyes with 

sylvan tendernesses : 
The very world, by God's constraint, 

from falseliood's ways removing, 
Jts women and its men became beside 

Iiim, true and loving. 

VHI. 

But though in blindness he remained 

unconscious of that guiding, 
And things provided came witliout the 

sweet sense of providing. 
He testified this solemn truth, while 

phrenzy desolated — 
Nor man nor nature satisfy whom only 

God created ! 



Like a sick child that knoweth not his 

mother while she blesses 
And drops upon his burning brow the 

coolness of her kisses ; 
That turns his fevered eyes around — 

' My mother ! where's my mother ?' — 
As if such tender words and deeds could 

come from any other ! — 



The fever gone, with leaps of heart he 

sees her bending o'er him ; 
Hsr face all pale from watchful love, 

the unweary love she bore him ! — 
Thus woke the poet from the dream his 

life's long fever gave him, 
Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes, 

which closed in death to save him ! 



Thus ? oh, not thus ! no type of earth 

can image that awaking. 
Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of 

seraphs, round him breaking, 
Or felt the new immortal throb of soul 

from body parted ; 
But felt those eyes alone, and knew ' My 

Saviour I tiot deserted !' 



Deserted ! who hath dreamt that when 

the cross in darkness rested. 
Upon the Victim's hidden face, no love 

was manifested ? 
What frantic hands outstretched have f 

e'er the atoning drops averted, 
What tears have washed them from the 

soul, that one should be deserted ? 



Deserted I God could separate from 

His own essence rather : 
And Adam's sins have swept between 

the righteous Son and Father ; 
Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry his 

universe hath shaken — 
It went up single, echoless, ' My God, I 

am forsaken I' 



It went up from the Holy's lips amid 

his lost creation. 
That, of the lost, no son should use those 

words o/ desolation ; 
Tliat earth's worst phrenzies, marring 

hope, should mar not hope's fruition, . 
And I, on Cowper's grave, should se« 

his rapture in a vision ! 



THE PET NAME. 



THE MEASURE. 

" He conipreliemled the dust of tlie carlli In 
A measure (^^"p^*)."— isaio/i xl. 

"Thougivest tliem ti'arB to drink la a moa- 
unre (W*iSw) "*— Psalm Ixxx. 

God, the Creator, with pulseless hand 
(-)f unoriginated power, hath weighed 
The dast of earth and tears of man in 
one 

Measure and by one weight : 

So saith His holy book. 

Shall 1UC, then, who have issued from 

the dust. 
And there return — shall ive, who toil for 

dust. 
And wrap our winnings in this dustj' 
life. 
Say, ' No more tears. Lord God ! 
The measure runneth o'er ? ' 

Oh, holder of the balance, laughest 

Thou? 
Nay, Lord 1 be gentler to our foolish- 
ness, 
For His sake who assumed our dust and 
turns 
On Thee pathetic eyes 
Still moistened with our tears ! 

And teach us, O our Father, while we 

weep. 
To look in patience upon earth and 

learn — 
Waiting in that meek gesture, till at last 
These tearful eyes be filled 
With the dry dust of death ! 



THE WEAKEST THING. 



Which is the weakest thing of all 

Mine heart can ponder ? 
The sun, a little cloud can pall 



* Ib«lievo that tho word occurs In no other 
l>«rt of Uie Hebrew ijcriptures. 



With darkness yonder ? 
The cloud, a little wind can move 

Where'er it listeth ? 
The wind, a little leaf above. 

Though sere, resisteth ? 



What time that yellow leaf was green. 

My days were gladder ; 
But now, whatever Spring may mean, 

I must grow sadder. 
Ah me ! a leaf with sighs can wring 

My lips asunder — 
Then is mine heart the weakest thing 

Itself can ponder. 



Yet, Heart, when sun and cloud are 
pined 

And drop together. 
And at a blast which is not wind. 

The forests wither. 
Thou from the darkening deathly curse. 

To glory breakest, — 
The Strongest of the Universe 

Guarding the weakest 1 



THE PET-NAME. 



Whlcli from their lips seemed :i carew. 

Misa MiTKORD'8 VranMtic Scentt. 



I HAVE a name, a little name, 

Uncadenced for the ear, 
Unhonored by ancestral claim, 
Unsanctified by prayer and psalm 
The solemn font anear. 



It never did to pages wove 
For gay romance, belong. 
It never dedicate did move 
As ' Sacharissa,' imto love — 
' Orinda,' unto song 



Though I write books, it will be read 

Upon the leaves of none, 
And afterward, when I am dead. 



76 



TO FLUSH, MY DOG. 



Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread 
Across my funeral stone. 



This name, whoever chance to call. 

Perhaps your smile may win. 
Nay, do not smile ! mine eyelids fall 
Over mine eyes, and feel withal 
The sudden tears within. 



Is there a leaf that greenly grows 
Where summer meadows bloom 
But gathereth the winter snows. 
And changeth to the hue of those. 
If lasting till they come? 



Is there a word, or jest, or game. 

But time encrusteth round 
With sad associate thoughts the same,? 
And so to me my very name 

Assumes a mournful sound. 



My brother gave that name to me 
When we were children twain ; 
When names acquired baptismally 
Were hard to utter as to see 
That life had any pain. 



No shade was on us then, save one 
Of chestnuts from the hill — 

And through the word our laugh did 
run 

As part thereof. The mirth being done. 
He calls me by it still. 

IX. 

N.ay, do not smile ! I hear in it 
What none of you can hear I 
The talk upon the willow seat. 
The bird and wind that did repeat 
Around, our human cheer. 



I hear the birthday's noisy bliss. 

My sister's woodland glee, — 
My father's praise, 1 did not miss, 
When stoopinir down he cared to ki 
The poet at his knee ; — 



And voices, which to name me, aye 

Their tenderest tones were keeping I— v 
To some I never more can say 
An answer, till God wipes away 
In heaven those drops of weeping. 



My name to me a sadness wears ; 

No murmurs cro.ss my mind ; 
Now God be thanked for these thick 

tears. 
Which show, of those departed years. 

Sweet memories left behind ! 



Now God be thanked for years en- 
wrought 
With love which softens yet ! 
Now God be thanked for every thought 
Which is so tender it has caught 
Earth's guerdon of regret I 



Earth saddens, never shall remove. 

Affections purely given ; 
And e'en that mortal grief shall prove 
The immortality of love. 

And brighten it with Heaven. 



TO FLUSH, MY DOG. 

Loving friend, the gift of one 
Who her own true faith hath run. 

Through thy lower nature ;* 
P.e my benediction said 
With my hand upon thy head, 

Gentl* fellow -creature ! 

Like a lady's ringlets brown, 
Flow thine silken ears adown 
Either side demurely 



• This (log was thn gift of my (l«rtr nnd miI- 
mired tVIena, Misa Mlt'orii, and belotiKH (o ttia 
beautiful raco she lias nMidereil rult'luutfil 
atiions Enerlisl' nml American rcadc h Tin- 
Plushes have their laurels ns wi'll as Ihu 
C;PR,irs,— the chief differeneo 'at least the very 
head and front of it^ consistlni;, perhapn, I" 
the hrtlil hea I of the latter under the crowu. 



TO FLUSH, MV DOG. 



77 



Of thy silver-suited breast 
Shining out from all the rest 
Of thy body purely. 

Darkly bjown thy body is, 
Till the sunshine striking this 

Alchemise its dullness ; 
When the sleek curls manifold 
Flash all over into gold. 

With a burnished fuhiess. 

Underneath my stroking hand, 
Startled eyes of hazel bland 

Kmdling, growing larger. 
Up thou leapest with a spring. 
Full of prank and curveting. 

Leaping like a charger. 

Leap ! thy broad tail waves a light ; 
Leap ! thy slender feet are bright. 

Canopied in fringes. 
Leap — those tasselled ears of thine 
Flicker strangely, fair and fine, 
Down their golden inches. 

Yet, my pretty, sportive friend. 
Little is 't to such an end 

That I praise thy rareness ! 
Other dogs may be thy peers 
Haply in those drooping ears. 

And this glossy fairness. 

But of thee it shall be said. 
This dog watched beside a bed 

Day and night unweary, — 
Watched within a curtained room. 
Where no sunbeam brake the gloom 

Round the sick and dreary. 

Roses gathered for a vase. 
In that chamber died apace. 

Beam and breeze resigning — 
This dog only, waited on, . 
Knowing that when light is gone, 

Love remains for shining. 

Other dogs in thymy dew 

Tracked the hares and followed through 

Sunny moor or meadow — 
This dog only, crept and crept 
Next a languid cheek that slept. 

Sharing in the shadow. 



Other dogs of loyal cheer 
Bounded at the whistle clear. 

Up the woodside hying — 
This dog only, watched in reach 
Of a faintly uttered speech. 

Or a louder sighing. 

And if one or two quick tears 
Dropped upon his glossy ears. 

Or a sigh came double, — 
Up he sprang in eager haste. 
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast, 

In a tender trouble. 

And this dog was satisfied 

If a pale thin hand would glide 

Down his dewlaps sloping, — 
Which he pushed his nose within, 
After, — platforming his chin 

On the palm left open. 

This dog, if a friendly voice 
Called him now to blither choice 

Than such a chamber-keeping, 
' Come out ! ' praying from the door,- 
Presseth backward as before. 

Up against me leaping. 

Therefore to this dog will I, 
Tenderly not scornfully. 

Render praise and favor : 
With my hand upon his head. 
Is my benediction. said. 

Therefore, and forever. 

And because he loves me so. 
Better than his kind will do 

Often, man or woman, 
Give I back more love again 
Than dogs often take of men. 

Leaning from my Human. 

Blessings on thee, dog of mine. 
Pretty collars make thee fine. 

Sugared milk make fat thee I 
Pleasures wag on in thy tail — 
Hands of gentle motion fail 

Nevermore, to pat thee ! 

Downy pillow take thy head, 
Silken coverlid bestead. 

Sunshine help thy sleeping I 
No fly's buzzing wake thee up— 



78 



SONNETS. 



No man break thy purple cup, 
Set for drinking deep in. 

Whiskered cats arointed flee — 
Sturdy stoppers keep from thee 

Cologne distillations ; 
Nuts lie in thy path for stones. 
And thy feast-day macaroons 

Turn to daily rations I 

Mock I thee, in wishing weal ? — 
Tears are in my eyes to feel 



Thou art made so straightly. 
Blessing needs must straighten too,- 
Little canst thou joy or do, 

Thou who \ov est greatly. 

Yet be blessed to the height 
Of all good and all delight 

Pervious to thy nature. 
Only loved beyond that line. 
With a love that answers thine, 

Loving fellow-creature I 



SONNETS. 



BEREAVEMENT. 
When some Beloveds, 'neath whose 

eyelids lay 
The sweet lights of my childhood, one 

by one 
Did leave me dark before the natural 

sun. 
And I astonished fell, and could not 

pray, 
A thought within me to myself did say, 
' Is God less God that thou art left 

undone? 
Rise, worship, bless Him, in this 

sackcloth spun. 
As in that purple 1'— But I answered, 

Nay ! . . . 
What child his filial heart in words can 

loose, 
If he behold his tender father raise 
The hand that chastens sorely ? can he 

choose 
But sob in silence with an upward 

gaze ?— 
And my great Father, thinking fit to 

bruise. 
Discerns in speechless tears, both prayer 

and praise. 



CONSOLATION. 

All are not taken ! there are left behind 
Living Beloveds, tender looks to bring, 
And make the daylight still a happy 
thing. 



And tender voices, to make soft the 

wind. 
But if it were not so — if I could find 
No love in all the world for comforting. 
Nor any path but hollowly did ring. 
Where ' dust to dust' the love from life 

disjoined — 
And if before these sepulchres unmoving 
I stood alone, (as some forsaken lamb 
Goes bleating up the moors in weary 

dearth) 
Crying ' Where are ye, O my loved and 

loving ?'.... 
I know a Voice would sound, ' Daughter, 

I AM. 

Can I suffice for Heaven, and not for 
earth V 



THE SOUL'S EXPRESSION. 

With stammering lips and insufficient 

sound 
I strive and struggle to deliver right 
That music of my nature, day and night 
With dream and thought and feeling 

interwound. 
And inly answering all the senses round 
With octaves of a mystic depth and 

height 
Which step out grandly to the infinite 
From the dark edges of the sensual 

ground ! 
This song of soul I struggle to outbear 



SONNETS. 



79 



Through portals of the sense, sublime 

and whole. 
And utter all myself into the air : 
But if I did it, — as the thunder-roll 
Breaks its own cloud, — my flesh would 

perish there. 
Before that dread apocalypse of soul. 



THE SERAPH AND POET. 

T'he serapli sings before the manifest 
God-one, and in the burning of the 

Seven, 
And with the full life of consummate 

Heaven 
Heaving beneath him like a mother's 

breast 
Warm with her first-born's slumber in 

that nest I 
The poet sings upon the earth 

grave -riven : 
Before the naughty world soon self- 
forgiven 
For wronging him ; and in the darkness 

prest 
From his own soul by worldly weights. 

Even so. 
Sing, seraph with the glory I Heaven 

is high — 
Sing, poet with the sorrow ! Earth is 

low. 
The universe's inward voices cry 
' Amen' to either song of joy and wo — 
Sing seraph, — poet,— sing on equally. 



ON A PORTRAIT OF WORDS- 
WORTH BY R. B. HAYDON. 

Wordsworth upon Helvellyn ! Let 

the cloud 
Ebb audibly along the mountain-wind. 
Then break against the rock, and show 

behind 
'I'he lowland valleys floating up to crowd 
The sense with beauty. He, with 

forehead bowed 
And humble-lidded eyes, as one inclined 
Before the sovran thought of his own 

mind. 



And very meek with inspirations 

proud, — 
Takes here his rightful place as 

poet-priest 
By the high-altar, singing prayer and 

prayer_ 
I'o the higher i£eavens. A noble vision 

free 
Our Haydon's hand has flung out from 

the mist! 
No portrait this, with Academic air — 
Tliis is the poet and his poetry. 



PAST AND FUTURE. 

Mv future will not copy fair my past 
On any leaf but Heaven's. Be fully 

done. 
Supernal Will I I would not fain be 

one 
Who, satisfying thirst and breaking fast 
Upon the fulness of the heart, at last 
Says no grace after meat. My wine 

hath run 
Indeed out of my cup, and there is none 
To gather up the bread of my repast 
Scattered and trampled ; — yet I find 

some good 
In earth's green herbs and springs that 

bubble up 
Clear from the darkling ground, — 

content until 
I sit with angels before better food. 
Dear Christ ! when thy new vintage 

fills my cup, 
This hand shall shake no more, nor that 

wine spill. 



IRREPARABLENESS. 

I HAVE been in the meadows all the day 
And gathered there the nosegay that 

you see ; 
Singing within myself ^.as bird or bee 
When such do field-work on a morn of 

May : 
But now I look upon my flowers, — 

decay 
Has met them in my hands more fatally 
Because more warmly clasped ; and 

sobs arc freo 



SONNETS. 



To come instead of song^. What do 

you say, 
Sweet counsellors, dear friends? that I 

should go 
Back straightway to the fields, and 

gather more? 
Another, sooth, may do it, — but not I : 
My heart is very tired— my strength is 

low — 
My hands are full of blossoms plucked 

before. 
Held dead within them till myself shall 

die 



TEARS. 

Thank God, bless God, all ye who suflfer 

not 
More grief than ye can weep for. That 

is well — ■ 
That is light grieving 1 lighter, none 

befell. 
Since Adam forfeited the primal lot. 
Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps 

in its cot. 
The mother singing ; at her marriage- 
bell 
The bride weeps ; and before the oracle 
Of high-faned hills, the poet has forgot 
Such moisture on his cheeks. Thank 

God for grace. 
Ye who weep only I If, as some have 

done. 
Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place. 
And touch but tombs, — look up 1 Those 

tears will run 
Soon in long rivers down the lifted face. 
And leave the vision clear for stars and 

sun. 



GRIEF. 

I TELL you, hopeless grief is passion- 
less — 

That only men incredulous of despair. 

Half-taught in anguish, through the 
midnight air 

Beat upward to God's throne in loud 
access 

Of shrieking and reproach. Full desei t- 



In.souls as countries, lieth silent-bare '| 
Under the blanching, vertical eye-gl»«"'|t^ 
Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted' 

man, express 
Grief for thy Dead in silence like to : 

death ; ! 

Most like a monumental statue set ; 

In everlasting watch and moveless wo, | 
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. I 
Touch it: the marble eyelids arc not i 

wet — 
If it could weep, it could arise and go. 



SUBSTITUTION. 

When some beloved voice that was to. 
you 

Both sound and sweetness, faileth sud- 
denly. 

And silence against which you dare nol; 
cry. 

Aches round you like a strong disease 
and new — 

What hope 1 what help ? what music 
will undo 

That silence to your sense ? Not friend- 
ship's sigh — 

Nor reason's subtle count 1 Not melody 

Of viols, nor of pipes that Faunus 
blew — 

Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales. 

Whose liearts leap upward through the 
cypress trees 

To the clear moon ; nor yet the spheric 
laws 

Self-chanted, — nor the angel's sweet All 
hails. 

Met in the smile of God. Nay, none of 
these. 

Speak THOU, availing Christ 1— and fill 
this pause. 



COMFORT. 

Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and 

sweet 
From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low. 
Lest I should fear and fall, and miss thee 

so 
Who art not missed by any that entreat- 



SONNETS. 



Spcnk to me as to Mary at thy feet — 
And if no precious gums my hands 

bestow, 
Let my tears drop hke amber, while I 

go 

[n reach of thy divinest voice complete 
In humanest affection — thus in sooth, 
To lose the sense of losing I As a child. 
Whose song-bird seeks the wood for 

evermore, 

Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth ; 
rill, sinking on her breast, love-recon- 
ciled. 
He sleeps the faster that he wept before. 



PERPLEXED MUSIC. 

Experience, like a pale musician, holds 

A dulcimer of patience in his hand 

Whence harmonies we cannot under- 
stand. 

Of God's will in His worlds, the strain 
unfolds 

In sad perplexed minors. Deathly 
colds 

Fall on us while we hear and counter- 
mand 

3ur sanguine heart back from the fancy- 
land 

With nightingales in visionary wolds. 

We murmur,— • Where is any certai 
tune 

Of measured music, in such notes as 
these r— 

But angels, leaning from the golden 
seat. 

Are not so minded : their fine ear hath 
won 

The issue of completed cadences ; 

And, smiling down the stars, they whis- 
per — Sweet. 



WORK. 

What are we set on earth for? Say, 

to toil— 
Nor seek to leave thy tendmg of the 

vines. 
For all the heat o' day, till it declines. 



And Death's mild curfew shall from 

work assoil. 
God did anoint thee with his odorous 

oil. 
To wrestle, not to reign ; and He assigns 
All thy tears over, like pure crystallines. 
For younger fellow-workers of the soil 
To wear for amulets. So others shall 
Take patience, labor, to their heart and 

hand. 
From thy hand, and thy heart, and thy 

brave cheer. 
And God's grace fructify through thee 

to all. 
The least flower, with a brimming cup, 

may stand 
And share its dew-drop with another 

near. 



FUTURITY. 

And, O beloved voices, upon which 
Ours passionately call, because erelong 
Ye brake off in the middle of that song 
We sang together softly, to enrich 
The poor world with the sense of love, 

and witch 
The heart out of things evil,— I am 

strong. 
Knowing ye are not lost for aye among 
The hills, with last year's thrush. God 

keeps a niche . 

In Heaven to hold our idols : and albeit 
He brake them to our faces and denied 
That our close kisses should impair their 

white, — 
I know we shall behold them, raised 

complete. 
The dust swept from their beauty,— glo- 
rified . . . , 
New Memnons singing in the great 

God-light. 



THE TWO SAYINGS. 
Two sayings of J.he Holy Scripture;; 

beat 
I,ike pulses in the church's brow and 

breast ; 



SONNETS. 



And by them, we find rest in our unrest, 

And heart-deep in salt tears, do yet en- 
treat 

God's fellowship, as if on lieavenly seat. 

The first is Jesus wept, whereon is 
prest 

Full many a sobbing face that drops its 
best 

And sweetest waters on the record 
sweet : 

And one is, where the Christ denied 
and scorned 

Looked upon Peter. Oh, to render 
plain. 

By help of having loved a little and 
mourned. 

That look of sovran love and sovran 
pain 

Which He who could not sin yet suffered, 
turned 

On him who could reject but not sus- 
tain ! 



THE LOOK. 

The Saviour looked on Peter. Ay, no 

word — 

No gesture of reproach ! The heavens 
serene 

Though heavy with armed justice, did 
not lean 

Their thunders that way The forsaken 
Lord 

looked only, on the traitor. None re- 
cord 

What that look was ; none guess : for 
those who have seen 

Wronged lovers loving through a death- 
pang keen. 

Or pale-cheeked martyrs smiling to a 
sword. 

Have missed Jehovah at the judgment- 
call. 

And Peter, from the height of blas- 
phemy — 

' I never knew this man ' did quail and 
fall, 

As knowing straight that God, — and 
turned free 

And went out speechless from the face 
of all, 

And filled the silence, weeping bitterly. 



THE MEANING OF THE LOOK., 

I THINK that look of Christ might seem 
to say — 

' Thou Peter ! art thou then a common 
stone 

Which I at last must break my heart 
upon. 

For all God's charge to His high angels 
may 

Guard my foot better ? Did I yesterday 

Wash tky feet, my beloved, that theyi 
should run 

Quick to deny me 'neath the morning- 
sun. 

And do thy kisses, like the rest, betray 1 

The cock crows coldly. — Go and mani- 
fest 

A late contrition, but no bootless fear ! 

For when thy final need 's dreariest, 

Thou shalt not be denied, as 1 am here 

My voice, to God and angels, shall 
attest, 

' Because /know this f/ian, lei him bei 
clear.' 



A THOUGHT FOR A LONELY 
DEATH-BED. 

INSCRIBED TO MY FRIEND E. C. 

If God compel thee to this destiny. 

To die alone, — with none beside thy bed 

To ruflie round with sobs thy last word I 
said. 

And mark with tears the pulses ebb j 
from thee, — 

Pray then alone — ' O Christ, come ten- 
derly ! 

By thy forsaken Sonship in the red 

Drear wine-press, — by the wilderness 
outspread, — 

And the lone garden where Thine agony 

Fell bloody from thy brow, — by all of 
those 

Permitted desolations, comfort mine ! 

No earthly friend being near me, inter- 
pose 

No deathly angel 'twixt my face and I 
Thine, 

But stoop Thyself to gather my life's 
rose. 

And smile away my mortal to Divine.' 



SONNETS. 



83 



WORK AND contemplation; 

The woman singeth at her spinning- 
wheel 

A pleasant chant, ballad or barcarolle ; 

She thinketh of her song, upon the 
whole. 

Far more than of the flax ; and yet the 
reel 

Is fall, and artfully her fingers feel 

With quick adjustment, provident con- 
trol. 

The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll. 

Out to a perfect thread. I hence appeal 

To the dear Christian church — that we 
may do 

Our Father's business in these temples 
mirk. 

Thus swift and steadfast ; thus intent 
and strong 

While, thus, apart from toil, our souls 
pursue 

Some high, calm, spheric tune, and 
prove our work 

The betterfor the sweetness of our song 



PAIN IN PLEASURE. 

A Thought lay like a flower upon mine 
heart. 

And drew around it other thoughts like 
bees 

For multitude and thirst of sweetnesses ; 

Whereat rejoicing, I desired the art 

Of the Greek whistler, who to wharf 
and mart 

Could lure those insect swarms from 
orange-trees. 

That I might hive with me such 
thoughts, and please 

My soul so, always. Foolish counter- 
part 

Of a weak man's vain wishes ! While I 
spoke. 

The thought I called a flower, grew net- 
tle-rough — 

The thoughts, called bees, stung me to 
festering. 

Oh, entertain (cried Reason, as she 
woke,) 



Your best and gladdest thoughts but 

long enough 
And they will all prove sad enough t» 

sting. 



AN APPREHENSION. 

If all the gentlest-hearted friends I 

know 
Concentred in one heart their gentle- 
ness. 
That still grew gentler, till its pulse was 

less 
For life than pity, I should yet be slow 
To bring my own heart nakedly below 
The palm of such a friend, that he 

should press 
Motive, condition, means, appliances. 
My false ideal joy and fickle wo. 
Out full to light and knowledge. I 

should fear 
Some plait between the brows — some 

rougher chime 
In the free voice . . . . O angels, let the 

flood 
Of bitter scorn dash on me 1 Do ye 

hear 
What / say, who bear calmly all the 

time 
This everlasting face to face with God ? 



DISCONTENT. 

Light human nature is too lightly tost 
And ruffled without cause ; complaining 

on — 
Restless with rest — until, being over- 
thrown. 
It learn eth to lie quiet. Let a frost 
Or a small wasp have crept to the inner- 
most 
Of our ripe peach : or let the wilful sun 
Shine westward of ourVindow — straight 

we run 
A furlong's sigh as if the world were 

lost. 
But what time through the heart and 
through the brain 



SONNETS. 



God hath transfixed us, — we, so moved 

before, 
Atuin to a calm. Ay, shouldering 

weights of pain, 
We anchor in deep waters, safe from 

shore ; 
And hear, submissive, o'er the stormy 

main, 
God's chartered judgments walk for 

evermore. 



PATIENCE TAUGHT BY NATURE. 

' O DREARY hfe ! ' we cry, ' O dreary 
life ! ' 

And still the generations of the birds 

Sing through our sighing, and the flocks 
and herds 

Serenely live while we are keeping strife 

With Heaven's true purpose in us, as a 
knife 

Against which we may struggle. Ocean 
girds 

Unslackened the dry land : savannah- 
swards 

Unweary sweep : hills watch, unworn ; 
and rife 

Meek leaves drop yearly from the forest- 
trees, 

To show above the unwasted stars that 
pass 

In their old glory. O thou God of old ! 

Grant me some smaller grace than 
comes to these ; — 

But so much patience as a blade of 
grass 

Grows by contented through the heat 
and cold. 



CHEERFULNESS TAUGHT BY 
REASON. 

I THINK we are too ready with complaint 
In this fair world of God's. Had we no 

hope 
Indeed beyond the zenith and the slope 
Of yon grey bank of sky, we might be 

faint 
To muse upon eternity's constraint 
Round our aspirant souls. But since the 

scope 



Must widen early, is it well to droop 
For a few days consumed in loss an 

taint? 
O pusillanimous Heart, be comforted. 
And, like a cheerful traveller, take th 

road. 
Singing beside the hedge. What if th 

bread 

Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshoe 
To meet the flints ? — At least it may I: 

said, 
' Because the way is short, I thank the: 

God! 



EXAGGERATION. 

We overstate the ills of life, and take ' 
Imagination, given us to bring down 
The choirs of singing angels overshone 
By God's clear glory, — down our earl 

to rake 
The dismal snows instead ; flake follow. 

ing flake. 
To cover all the corn. We walk upoin 
The shadow of hills across a lcv< 

thrown. 
And pant like climbers. Near the aldct 

brake 
We sigh so loud, the nightingale withii 
Refuses to sing loud, as else she wouli 
O brothers! let us leave the shame ami 

sin 
Of taking vainly, in a plaintive mooc 
The holy name of Gkief ! — holy hcreii 
That, by the grief of One, came all oi 

good. 



ADEQUACY. | 

Now by the verdure on thy thousan 

hills. 
Beloved England, — doth the eart 

appear 
Quite good enough for men to overben 
The will of God in, with rebellioi 

wills ! 
We cannot say the morning sun fulfils 
Ingloriously its course : nor that thi 

clear 



SONNETS. 



85 



Strong stars without significance insphere 
v>ur habitation. We, meantime, our 

ills 
Heap up against this good ; and lift a 

cry 
Against this work-day world, this ill- 
spread feast. 
As if ourselves were better certainly 
Tlian what we come to. Maker and 

High Priest, 
I ask thee not my joys to multiply, — 
Only make me worthier of the least. 



TO GEORGE SAND. 

A DESIRE. 

Thou large-brained woman and large- 
hearted man. 

Self-called George Sand I whose soul 
amid the lions 

Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defi- 
ance. 

And answers roar for roar as spirits can : 

I would some miraculous thunder ran 

Above the applauded circus, in appli- 
ance 

Of thine own nobler nature's strength 
and science. 

Drawing two pinions, white as wings of 
swan. 

From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the 
place 

With holier light ! That thou to wo- 
man's claim. 

And man's, might join beside the angel's 
grace 

Of a pure genius sanctified from blame ; 

Till child and maiden pressed to thine 
embrace, 

To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fpme. 



TO GEORGE SAND. 

A RECOGNITION. 

True genius, but true woman ! dost 

deny 
Thy woman's nature with a manly scorn. 
And break away the gauds and armlets 

worn 



By weaker women in captivity t 
Ah, vain denial ! that revolted cry 
Is sobbed in by a woman's voice for- 
lorn : 
Thy woman's hair, my sister, all unshorn, 
Floats back dishevelled strength in 

agony. 
Disproving thy man's name : and while 

before 
The world thou burnest in a poet fire. 
We see thy woman's heart beat ever. 

more 
Through the large flame. Beat purer^ 

heart, and higher. 
Till God unsex thee on the heavenly 

shore. 
Where unincarnate spirits purely aspire. 



THE PRISONER. 

I COUNT the dismal time by months and 

years. 
Since last I felt the green sward under 

foot. 
And the great breath of all things sum- 
mer-mute 
Met mine upon my lips. Now earth 

appears 
As strange to me as dreams of distant 

spheres. 
Or thoughts of Heaven we weep at. 

Nature's lute 
Sounds on behind this door so closely 

shut, 
A strange wild music to the prisoner's 

ears. 
Dilated by the distance, till the brain 
Grows dim with fancies which it feels 

too fine ; 
While ever, with a visionary pain. 
Past the precluded senses, sweep and 

shine 
Streams, forests, glades, — and many a 

golden train 
Of sunlit hills, transfigured to Divine. 



INSUFFICIENCY. 
When I attain to utter forth in verse 
Some inward thought, my soul throbs 
audibly 



SONNETS. 



Along my pulses, yearning to be free 
And something farther, fuller, higher, 

rehearse, 
To the individual, true, and the universe. 
In consummation of right harmony. 
But, like a wind-exposed, distorted tree, 
We are blown against for ever by the 

curse 
Which breathes through nature. O, 

the world is weak. 
The effluence of each is false to all ; 
And what we best conceive, we fail to 

speak. 
Wait, soul, until thine ashen garments 

fall ! 
And then resume thy broken strains, 

and seek 
Fit peroration, without let or thall. 



FLUSH OR FAUNUS. 

You see this dog. It was but yesterday 
I mused forgetful of his presence here. 
Till thought on thought drew downward 

tear on tear ; 
When from the pillow, where wet- 
cheeked I lay, 
A head as hairy as Faunus, thrust its 

way 
Right .sudden against my face, — two 

golden-clear 
Great eyes astonished mine, — a drooping 

ear 
Did flap me on either check to dry the 

spray ! 
I started first, as .some Arcadian, 
Amazed by goatly god in twilight 

grove : 
But as my bearded vision closelier ran 
My tears olT, I knew Flush, and rose 

above 
Surprise and sadness ; thanking the true 

Pan, 
Who, by low creatures, leads to heights 

of love. 



FINITE AND INFINITE. 

The wind sounds only in opposing 

straights. 
The sea, beside the shore ; man's spirit 

rends 



Its quiet only up against the ends 

Of wants and oppositions, loves and 

hates. 
Where worked and worn by passionate 

debates. 
And losing by the loss it apprehends. 
The flesh rocks round, and every breath 

it sends. 
Is ravelled to a sigh. All tortured states 
Suppose a straightened place. Jehovah 

Lord, 
Make room for rest, around me ! Out 

of sight 
Now float me, of the vexing land 

abhorred. 
Till, in deep calms of space, my soul 

may right 
Her nature : shoot large sail on length- 
ening cord. 
And rush exultant on the Infinite. 



TWO SKETCHES. 



The shadow of her face upon the wall 
May take your memory to the perfect 

Greek ; 
But when you front her, you would call 

the cheek 
Too full, sir, for your models, if withal 
That bloom it wears could leave you 

critical. 
And that smile reaching toward the rosy 

streak : 
For one who smiles so, has no need to 

speak 
To lead your thoughts along, as steed to 

stall ! 
A smile that turns the sunny side o' the 

heart 
On all the world, as if herself did win 
By what she lavished on an open 

mart : — 
Let no man call the liberal sweetness, 

sin, — 
While friends may whisper, as they 

stand apart, 
*' Methinks there's still some warmer 

place within." 



SONNETS. 



Her azure eyes, dark lashes hold in fee : 
Her fair superfluous ringlets, without 

check, 
Drop after one another down her neck ; 
As many to each cheek as you might see 
Green leaves to a wild rose. This sign 

outwardly. 
And a like woman-covering seems to 

deck 
Her inner nature. For she will not fleck 
World's sunshine with a finger. Sym- 
pathy 
Must call her in Love's name ! and then, 

I know. 
She rises up, and brightens as she should, 
And lights her smile for comfort, and is 

slow 
In nothing of high-hearted fortitude. 
To smell this flower, come near it ; such 

can grow 
In that sole garden where Christ's brow 

dropped blood. 



MOUNTAINEER AND POET 

The simple goatherd, between Alp and 

sky. 
Seeing his shadow in that awful tryst. 
Dilated to a giant's on the mist. 
Esteems not his own stature larger by 
The apparent image, but more patiently 
Strikes his staff down beneath his 

clenching fist — 
While the snow-mountains lift their 

amethyst 
And sapphire crowns of splendor, far 

and nigh. 
Into the air around him. Learn from 

hence 
Meek morals, all ye poets that pursue 
Your way still onward, up to eminence ! 
Ye are not great, becaase creation drew 
Large revelations round your earliest 

sense. 
Nor bright, because God's glory shines 

for you. 



THE POET. 

The poet hath the child's sight in his 

breast. 
And sees all new. What oftenest he 

has viewed. 
He views with the first glory. Fair and 

good 
Pall never on him, at the fairest, best. 
But stand before him holy and undressed 
In week-day false conventions, such as 

would 
Drag other men down from the altitude 
Of primal types, too early dispossessed. 
Why, God would tire of all his heaven 

as soon 
As thou, O godlike, childlike poet, 

didst. 
Of daily and nightly sights of sun and 

moon ! 
And therefore hath He set thee in the 

midst. 
Where men may hear thy wonder's 

ceaseless tune. 
And praise His world for ever as thou 

bidst. 



HIRAM POWERS' GREEK SLAVE. 

They say Ideal Beauty cannot enter 
The house of anguish. On the thresh- 

hold stands 
An alien Image with enshackled hands. 
Called the Greek Slave : as if the artist 

meant her, 
(That passionless perfection which he 

lent her. 
Shadowed not darkened where the sill 

expands) i 

To, so, confront man's crimes in differ- 
ent lands 
With man's ideal sense. Pierce to the 

centre. 
Art's fiery finger ! — ;and break up ere 

long 
The serfdom of this world! Appeal, 

fair stone. 
From God's pure heights of beauty, 

against man's wrong ! 
Catch up in thy divine face, not alon< 



SONNETS. 



East griefs but west, — and strike and 
shame the strong. 

By thunders of white silence, over- 
thrown. 



LIFE. 

Each creature holds an insu.ar po.nt in 

space : 
Yet what man stirs a finger, breathes a 

sound. 
But all the multitudinous beings round 
la all the countless worlds, with time 

and place 
For their conditions, down to the central 

base. 
Thrill, haply, in vibration and rebound. 
Life answering life across the vast pro- 

foimd. 
In full antiphony, by a common grace ! 
I think, this sudden joyaunce which 

illumes 
A child's mouth sleeping, unaware may 

run 
From some soul newly loosened from 

earth's tombs : 
1 think, this passionate sigh, which half- 
begun 
1 stifle back, may reach and stir the 

plumes 
Of God's calm angel standing in the 

sun. 



LOVE. 

We cannot live, except thus mutually 

We alternate, aware or unaware. 

The reflex act of life : and when we 

bear 
Our virtue onward most impulsively. 
Most full of invocation, and to be 
Most instantly compellant, certes, there 
We live most life, whoever breathes 

most air 
And counts his dying years by sun and 

sea. 
But when a soul, by choice and con- 
science, doth 
Throw «ut her full force on another soul, 



The conscience and the concentratiort 

both 
Make mere life. Love. For Life in 

pertect whole 
And aim consummated, is Love in sooth. 
As nature's magnet-heat rounds pole 

with pole. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 

' And there was silence In heaven for the 
space of Imlf-an-hour.'— KereZcitioih 

God, who, with thunders and great 
voices kept 

Beneath thy throne, and stars most sil- 
ver-paced 

Along the inferior gyres, and open-faced 

Melodious angels round ; — canst inter- 
cept 

Music with music ; — yet, at will, has 
swept 

All back, all back, (said he in Patmos 
placed,) 

To fill the heavens with silence of the 
waste. 

Which lasted half-an-hour ! — Lo, I who 
have wept 

All day and night, beseech thee by my 
tears. 

And by that dread response of curse 
and groan 

Men alternate across these hemispheres. 

Vouchsafe us such a half-hour's hush 
alone, 

In compensation for our stormy years ! 

As heaven has paused from song, let 
earth, from moan. 



THE PROSPECT. 

Methinks we do as fretful children do. 
Leaning their faces on the window-pane 
To sigh the glass dim with their own 

breath's stain, 
And shut the sky and landscape from 

their view. 
And thus, alas! since God the maker 

drew 
A mystic separation 'twixt those twam. 



SONNETS. 



The life beyond us, and our souls in 

pain. 
We miss the prospect which we're called 

un to 
By grief we're fools to use. Be still 

and strong, 
O man, my brother ! hold thy sobbing 

breath, 
And keep thy soul's large window pure 

from wrong, — 
That so, as life's appointment issueth. 
Thy vision may be clear to watch along 
The sunset consummation-lights of death 



HUGH STUART BOYD.* 

HIS BLINDNESS. 

God would not let the spheric Lights 

accost 
This God-loved man, and bade the 

earth stand off 
With all her beckoning hills, whose 

golden stuff 
Under the feet of the royal sun is 

crossed. 
Yet such things were to him not wholly 

lost, — 
Permitted, with his wandering eyes 

light-proof. 
To have fair visions rendered full enough 
By many a ministrant accomplished 

ghost : 
And seeing, to sounds of softly turned 

book-leaves, 
Sappho's crown-rose, and Mcleager's 

spring. 
And Gregory's starlight on Greek-bur- 
nished eves : 



» To whom was inscribed, in grateful aflec- 
tlou, my poem ol ' Cyprus Wine.' There comes 
H moment in life when even gratitude and 
alteotiou turn to pain, as they do now with 
nie. This excellent and learned man, enthu- 
siastic for the good and beautitul, and one ol" 
tlie n\o8t simple and upright of human beings, 
passed out of his long darliness tlirough deatli 
lu the summer of 184S; Dr. Adam Clarke's 
daughter and biographer, Mrs. Smith, (happier 
in this than the absent) fulfilling a double filial 
duty as she sat by the death bed of her fatlier's 
friond and h«M. 



Till Sensuous and Unsensuous seem one 

thing 
Viewed from one level ; — earth's reapers 

at the sheaves 
Scarce plainer than Heaven's angels on 

the wing I 



HUGH STUART BOYD. 

HIS DEATH, 1848. 

Beloved friend, who living many years 

With sightless eyes raised vainly to 
the sun, 

Didst learn to keep thy patient soul in 
tune 

To visible nature's elemental cheers ! 

God has not caught thee to new hemi- 
spheres 

Because thou wast aweary of this one : — 

I think thine angel's patience first was 
done. 

And that he spake out with celestial 
tears, 

' Is it enough, dear God ? then lighten so 

This soul that smiles in darkness !' 

Steadfast friend. 

Who never didst my heart or life mis- 
know. 

Nor cither's faults too keenly appre- 
hend, — 

How can I wonder when I see thee go 

To join the Dead found faithful to the 
end? 



HUGH STUART BOYD 



Three gifts the Dying left me ; 

.^schylus. 
And Gregory Nazianzen, and a clock 
Chiming the gradual hours out like a 

flock 
Of stars whose motion is melodious. 
The books were those I used to read 

from, thus 
Assisting my dear teacher's soul to 
unlock 



90 



LOVED ONCE. 



The darkness of his eyes : now, mine 

they mock, 
Blinded in turn by tears : now, mur- 
murous 
Sad echoes of my young voice, years 

agone 
Entoning from these leaves the Grsecian 

phrase. 
Return and choke my utterance. Books, 

he down 
In silence on the shelf there, within 

gaze ! 
And thou, clock, striking the hour's 

pulses on. 
Chime in the day which ends these 

parting days I 



LOVED ONCE. 

I CLASSED, appraising once, 
Earth's lamentable sounds ; the well-a- 
day, 
The jarring yea and nay. 
The fall of kisses on unanswering clay. 
The sobbed farewell, the wekome 
mourn fuller ; — 
But all did leaven the air 
With a less bitter leaven of sure .de- 
spair. 
Than these words — 'I loved once.' 

And who saith ' I loved once ? ' 
Not angels, whose clear eyes, love, love 
fores ee. 
Love through eternity. 
And by To Love do apprehend To Be. 
Not God, called Love, his noble 

crown -name, — casting 
A light too broad for blasting ! 
The great God changing not from ever- 
lasting, 
Saith never, 'I loved once.' 

Oh, never is ' Loved once,* 
Thy word, thou Victim-Christ, mis- 
prized friend 
Thy cross and curse may rend ; 
But having loved Thou lovest to the 

end! 
It is man's saying — man's. Too weak 
to move 



One sphered star above, 
Man desecrates the eternal God -word. 
Love 
With his No More, and Once. 

How say ye, ' We loved once,' 
Blasphemers 'i Is your earth not cold 
enow. 
Mourners, without that snow? 
Ah, friends ! and would ye wrong each 

other so? 
And could ye say of some whose love 
is known, 
Whose prayers liave met your own. 
Whose tears have fallen for you, whose 
smiles have shone 
So long, — ' We loved them onck?' 

Could ye, ' We loved her once,' 
Say calm of me, sv/cet friends, when 
out of sight? 
When hearts of better right 
Stand in between me and your happy 

light ? 
And when, as flowers kept too long in 
the shade, 
Ye find my colors fade. 
And all that is not love in me, de- 
cayed ? 
Such words — Ye loved me once! 

Could ye, ' We loved her once,' 
Say cold of me when further put away 

In earth's sepulchral clay ? 
When mute the lips which deprecate 

to-day ? 
Not so ! not then — least then I When 
Life is shriven. 
And Death's full joy is given, — 
Of those who sit and love you up in 
Heaven, 
Say not, ' We loved them once.* 

Say never, ye loved once ! 
God is too near above, the grave, be- 
neath. 
And all our moments breathe 
Too quick in mysteries of life and 

death. 
For such a word. The eternities avenge 

Affections light of range — 
There comes no change to justify that 
change. 
Whatever comes — loved once I 



RJiArSODy OF LIFE'S PROGRESS. 



91 



And yet that same word once 
Is humanly acceptive 1 Kings have 
said 
Shaking a discrowned head, 
• We ruled once,'— dotards, ' We once 

taught and led ' — 
Cripples once danced i' the vines — and 
bards approved, 
Were once by scornnigs, moved : 
But love strikes one hour— love. Those 
never loved, 
Who dream that they loved once. 



A RHAPSODY OF LIFE'S PRO- 
GRESS. 

"Pill Rll the stops ofltfe with Hmefiil hrciith." 
Poems on Man, by Vonieliiis Mittlwwe.* 

We are borne into life — it is sweet, it is 
strange 1 

We lie still on the knee of a mild Mys- 
tery, 
Which smile with a change I 

But we doubt not of changes, we know 
not of spaces ; 

The Heavens seem as near as our own 
mother's face Is, 

And we think we could touch all the 
stars that we see ; 

And the milk of our mother is white on 
our mouth ! 

And, with small childish hands, we are 
turning around 

The apple of Life which another has 
found ; 

It is warm with our touch, not with sun 
of the south. 

And we count, as wc turn it, the red 
side for four — 

O Life, O Beyond, 

Thou art sweet, thou art strange ever- 
more. 

Then all things look strange in the pure 

golden aether : 
We walk through the gardens v/ith 

hands linked together, 

• A pui.ill volume, hy an Ameiioan poet — as 
reinarkKhle, in thontcht and mauner, lor a vi- 
ul Hlnvwy vigor, aa tliu right arm of Path- 
'.•;uer. 



And the lilies look large as the trees ; 
And as loud as the birds, sing the 

bloom-loving bees, 
And the birds snig like angels, so mys- 
tical fine ; 
And the cedars are brushing the archv 

angel's feet ; 
And time is eternity, — love is divine, 

And the world is complete. 
Now, God bless the child, — father, 
mother, respond ! 

O Life, O Beyond, 
Thou art strange, thou art sweet. 

Then we leap on the earth with the ar- 
mor of youth, 
And the earth rings again : 

And we breathe out, * O beauty,' — we 
cry out, ' O truth,' 

And the bloom of our lips drops with 
wine ; 

And our blood runs amazed 'neath the 
calm hyaline. 

The earth cleaves to the foot, the sun 
burns to the brain, — 

What is this exultation, and what this 
despair ? — 

The strong pleasure is smiting the nerves 
into pain. 

And we drop from the Fair as we climb 
to the Fair, 
And we lie in a trance at its feet ; 

And the breath of an angel cold-pierc- 
ing the air 
Breathes fresh on our faces in swoon ; 

And we think him so near, he is this 
side the sun ; 

And we wake to a whisper self-mur- 
mured and fond, 

O Life, O Beyond, 
Thou art strange, thou art sweet ! 

And the winds and the waters in pasto- 
ral measures 

Go winding around ils, with roll upon 
roll. 

Till the soul lies within in a circle of 
pleasures 
Which hideth the soul : 

And we run with the stag, and we leap 
with the horse. 

And we swim with the fish through the 
broad watercourse. 



A RHAPSODY OF LIFE'S PROGRESS. 



And we strike with the falcon, and hunt 

Avith the hound, 
And the joy which is in us, flies out by 

a wound ; 
And we shout so aloud, ' Wc exult, we 

rejoice,' 
Tliat we lose the low moan of our 

brothers around. 
And we shout so adeep down creation'^ 
profound. 
We are deaf to God's voice — 
And we bind the rose-garland on fore- 
head and ears. 
Yet we are not ashamed ; 
And the dew of the roses that runneth 
unblamed 
Down our cheeks, is not taken for 
tears. 
1 Fclp us, God, trust us, man, love us, 

woman I I hold 
Thy small head in my hands, — with its 

grapelets of gold 
Growing bright through my fingers, — 

like altar for oath, 
'Neath the vast golden spaces like wit- 
nessing faces 
That watch the eternity strong in the 
troth— 
I love thee, I leave thee. 
Live for thee, die for thee ! 
I prove thee, deceive thee. 
Undo evermore thee ! 
flelp me, God, slay me, man ! — one is 

mourning for both 1' 
And we stand up though young near 

the funeral-sheet 
Which covers the Caesar and old Phar- 

amond ; 
And death is so nigh us. Life cools from 
its heat — 

O Life, O Beyond, 
Art thou fair, — art thou sweet 1 



Tlien wc act to a purpose — we spring 

up erect — 
We will tame the wild mouths of the 

wilderness steeds : 
We will plough up the deep in the ships 

double decked ; 
We will build the great cities, and do 

the great deeds. 
Strike the steel upon steel, strike the soul 

upon soul. 



Strike the dole on the weal, overcoming 

the dole, 
Let the cloud meet the cloud in a grand 

thunder-roll I 
While the eagle of Thought rides the 

tempest in scorn. 
Who cares if the lightning is burning 

the corn ? 
Let us sit on the thrones 

In a purple .sublimity. 
And grind down men's bones 

To a pale unanimity 1 
Speed me, God ! — serve me, man I — I 

am god over men I 
When I speak in my cloud, none shall 

answer again — 
'Neath the stripe and the bond. 

Lie and mourn at my feet I ' — 
O thou Life, O I'eyond, 

Thou art strange, thou art sweet 1 

Then we grow into thought, — and with 

inward ascensions, 
Touch the bounds of our Being I 
We lie in the dark here, swathed doubly 

around 
With our sensual relations and social 

conventions. 
Yet are 'ware of a sight, yet are 'ware of 

a sound 
Beyond Hearing and Seeing, — 
Are aware that a Hades rolls deep on all 

sides 
With its infinite tides 
About and above us, — until the strong 

arch 
Of our life creaks and bends as if ready 

for falling, 
And through the dim rolling, we hear 

the sweet calling 
Of sjjirits that speak in a soft under- 

tongue 
The sense of the mystical march : 
And , we cry to them softly, ' Come 

nearer, come nearer, 
And lift up the lap of this Dark, and 

speak clearer. 
And teach us the song that ye sung.' 
And we smile in our thought if they 

answer or no. 
For to dream of a sweetness is sweot as 

to know ! 
Wonders breathe in our face ^ 

And we ask not their name ; "^ 



A RHAPSODY OF LIFE'S PROGRESS. 



9i 



Love takes all the blame 
Df the world's prison-place. 
And we sing back the songs as we guess 

them, aloud ; 
And we send up the lark of our music 
that cuts 
Untired through the cloud. 
To beat with its wings at the lattice 

Heaven shuts : 
Yet the angels look down and the mor- 
tals look up 
As the little wings beat. 
And the poet is blest with their pity or 

hope 
'Twixt the Heavens and the earth can a 
poet despond ? 

O Life, O Beyond, 
Thou art strange, thou art sweet I 

Then we wring from our souls their 

applicative strength. 
And bend to the cord the strong bow of 

our ken, 
And bringing our lives to the level of 

others 
Hold the cup we have filled, to their 

uses at length. 
' Help me, God ! love me, man ! I am 

man among men, 
And my life is a pledge 
Of the ease of another's 1 ' 
From the fire and the water we drive out 

the steam. 
With a rush and a roar and the speed of 

a dream ! 
And the car without horses, the car 

without wings 
Roars onward and flies 
On its grey iron edge, 
"Neath the heat of a Thought sitting 

still in our eyes — 
And the hand knots in air, with the 

bridge that it flings. 
Two peaks far disrupted by ocean and 

skies — 
And, lifting a fold of the smooth flowing 

Thames, 
Draws under the world with its turmoils 

and pothers ; 
While the swans float on softly, un- 
touched in their calms 
By Humanity's hum at the root of the 

springs I 



And with teachings of Thought we 
reach down to the deeps 
Of the souls of our brothers. 
And teach them full words with our 

slow-movmg lips 
' God,' ' Liberty,' ' Truth,' — which they 

hearken and think 
And work into harmony, link upon 

link, 
Till the silver meets round the earth 

gelid and dense, 
Shedding sparks of electric respondencc 
intense 
On the dark of Eclipse! 
Then we hear through the silence and 
glory afar. 
As from shores of a star 
In aphelion, — the new generations that 

cry. 
Disenthralled by our voice to harmoni- 
ous reply. 
' God,' • Liberty,' ' Truth ! ' 
We are glorious forsooth — 
And our name has a seat, 
Though the shroud should be donned I 

O Life, O Beyond, 
Thou art strange, thou art sweet ! 

Help me, God' — help me, man! I am- 

low, I am weak — 
Death loosens my sinews and creeps in 

in my veins ; 
My body is cleft by these wedges of 
pains 
From my spirit's serene ; 
And I feel the externe and insensate 
creep in 
On my organized clay. 
I sob not, nor shriek. 
Yet I faint fast away 1 
I am strong in the spirit, — deep- 

thoughtcd, clear eyed, — 
I could walk, step for step, with a angel 
beside, 
On the Heaven-heights of Truth ! 
Oh, the soul keeps its youth — 
But the body faints sore, it is tired in 

the race. 
It sinks from the chariot ere reaching 
the goal ; 
It is weak, it is cold. 
The rein drops from its hold — 
It sinks back with the death in its face. 



94 



THE HOUSE OF CLOUDS. 



On, chariot — on, soul. 

Ye are all the more fleet — 

Be alone at the goal 

Of the strange and the sweet ! 

Love us, God ! love us, man ! We be- 
lieve, we achieve— 

Let us love, let us live. 

For the acts coirespond — • 

We are glorious — and die I 
And again on the knee of a mild Mys- 
tery 

That smiles with a change, 
Here we lie I 
O Death, O Beyond, 

Thou art sweet, thou art strange I 



THE HOUSE OF CLOUDS. 

1 WOULD build a cloudy House 

For my thoughts to live in : 
When for earth too fancy-loose. 

And too low for Heaven I 
Hush ! I talk my dream aloud— 

I build it bright to see,— 
I build it on the moonlit cloud 

To which I looked with thee. 

Cloud-walls of the morning's grey. 

Faced with amber column. 
Crowned with crimson cupola 

From a sunset solemn ! 
May-mists, for the casements, fetch. 

Pale and glimmering ; 
With a sunbeam hid in each. 

And a smell of spring. 

Build the entrance high and proud. 

Darkening and then brightening. 
Of a riven thunder-cloud, 

Veined by the lightning. 
Use one with an iris-stain 

For the door within ; 
Turning to a sound like rain 

As we enter in. 

Build a spacious hall thereby : 

Boldly, never fearing. 
Use the blue place of the sky 

Which the wind is clearing ; 
Branched with corridors sublime. 

Flecked with winding stairs- 



Such as children wish to climb. 
Following their own prayers. 

In the mutest of the house, 

I will have my chamber : 
Silence at the door shall use 

Evening's light of amber. 
Solemnising every mood. 

Softening in degree. 
Turning sadness into good 

As I turn the key. 

Be my chamber tapestried 

With the showers of summer. 
Close, but soundless, — glorified 

When the sunbeams come here ; 
Wandering harper, harping on 

Waters stringed for such, 
Drawing colour for a tune, 

With a vibrant touch. 

Bring a shadow green and still 

From the chestnut forest. 
Bring a purple from the hill. 

When the heat is sorest ; 
Spread them out from wall to wall. 

Carpet-wove arouna, 
Whereupon the foot shall fall 

In light instead of sound. 

Bring the fantastic cloudlets home 

From the noontide zenith ; 
Range for sculptures round the room 

Named as Fancy weeneth : 
Some be Junos, without eyes ; 

Naiads, without sources ; 
Some be birds of paradise. 

Some, Olympian horses. 

Bring the dews the birds shake off. 

Waking in the hedges, — 
Those too, perfumed for a proof. 

From the lilies' edges : 
From our England's field and moor. 

Bring them calm and white in ; 
Whence to form a mirror pure 

For love's self-delighting. 

Bring a grey cloud from the east 
Where the lark is singing ; 

Something of the song at least, 
Unlost in the bringing : 

That shall be a morning chair, 
pQet-dream may sit in. 



CATARJNA TO CAMOENS. 



9S 



When it leans out on the air, 
Unrhymed and unwritten. 

Bring the red cloud from the sun 1 

Wliile he sinketh, catch it. 
That shall be a couch,— with one 

Sidelong star to watch it, — 
Fit for poet's finest thought 

At the curfew-sounding, 
Things unseen being nearer brought 

Than the seen, around him. 

Poet's thought, — not poet's sighs 

'Las, they come together 1 
Cloudy walls divide and fly. 

As in April weather ! 
Cupola and column proud. 

Structure bright to see- 
Gone 1— except that moonlit cloud. 

To which 1 looked with thee J 

Let them I Wipe such visionings 

From the Fancy's cartel- 
Love secures some fairer things 

Dowered with his immortal. 
The sun may darken, — heaven be 
bowed — 

But still unchanged shall be,— 
Here in my soul,— that moonlit cloud, 

To which 1 looked with thee ! 



CATARINA TO CAMOENS. 

Dying in his absence abroad, and re- 
ferring to the poem in which he 
recorded the sweetness of her eyes. 

On the door you will not enter, 

I have gazed too long — adieu ! 
Hope withdraws her peradventure— 
Death is near me, — and not you ! 
Come, O lover 1 
Close and cover 
These poor eyes, you called, 1 ween, 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

When I heard you sing that burden 

In my vernal days and bowers. 
Other praises disregarding, 
I but hearkened that of yours,— 



Only saying 

In heart-playing, 
• Blessed eyes mme eyes have been, 
If the sweetest, ms have seen ! ' 

But all changes. At this vesper. 

Cold the sun shines down the door. 
If you stood there, would you whisper 
' Love, 1 love you,' as before,— 
Death pervading 
Now, and shading 
Eyes you sang of, that yestreen, 
As the sweetest ever seen ? 

Yes 1 I think, were you beside ther.i, 

Near the bed 1 die upon,— 
Though their beauty you denied ihmi, 
As you stood there looking down, 
You would truly 
Call them duly. 
For the love's sake found therein,— 
' Sweetest eyes were ever seen.' 

And '\{ you looked down upon them, 

And if they looked up to you. 
All the light which has foregone them 
Would be gathered back anew 1 
They would truly 
Be as duly 
Love-transformed to Beauty's sheen.-^ 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

But, ah me I you only see me 

In your thoughts of loving man. 
Smiling soft perhaps and dreamy 
'I'hrough the wavings of my fan.— 
And unweeting 
Go repeating. 
In your reverie serene, 

• Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

While my spirit leans and reaches 

From my body still and pale. 
Fain to hear what tender speech is 
In your love to help my bale — 
O my poet 
Come and show it_! 
Come, of latest love to glean 

• Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.* 



O my poet, O my prophet. 
When you praised their swee 

Did you think, in singing of it. 
That it might be near to go ? 



itnesB so. 



96 



CATARINA TO CAM O ENS. 



Had you fancies 

From their glances, 
That the grave would quickly screen 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen V 

No reply I The fountains warble 
In the court-yard sounds alone : 
As the water to the marble 

So my heart falls with a moan, 
From love-sighing 
To this dying ! 
J >eath forerunneth Love, to win 
• Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

inil you come ? when I'm departed 

Where all sweetnesses are hid— 
When thy voice, my tender-hearted, 
V/ill not lift up either lid, 
Cry, O lover. 
Love is over 1 
' I y beneath the cypress green — 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

When the angelus is ringing. 

Near the convent will you walk, 
y\nd recall the choral singing 

Which brought angels down our talk ? 
Spirit-shriven 
I viewed Heaven, 
Tdl you smiled — ' Is earth unclean. 
Sweetest eyes, were ever seen ?' 

When beneath tlie palace-lattice. 

You ride slow as you have done. 
And you see a face there — thai is 
Not the old familiar one, — 
Will you oftly 
Murmur softly, 
' Here, ye watched me morn and e'en. 
Sweetest eyes, were ever seen !' 

When the palace ladies sitting 

Round your gittern, shall have said, 
' Poet, sing those verses written 
For the lady who is dead,' 
Will you tremble. 
Yet dissemble,— 
Or sing hoarse, with tears between, 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen ?' 

Sweetest eyes ! How sweet in flowings. 

The repeated cadence is ! 
Though you sang a hundred poems. 



Still the best one would be this. 

I can hear it 

'Twixt my spirit 
And the earth noise intervene — 
• Sweetest eyes, were ever seen,* 

But the priest waits for the praying, 
And the choir are on their knees. 
And the soul must pass away in 

Strains more solemn high than these 
Miserere 
For the weary — 
Oh, no longer for Catrine, 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen 1' 

Keep my riband, take and keep il, 
I have loosed it from my hair ;* 
Feeling, while you overweep it, 
Not alone in your despair, 
Since with saintly 
Watch, unfaintly. 
Out of Heaven shall o'er you lean 
•Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

But — but ti07U — yet imremovcd 

Up to Heaven, they glisten fast : 
You may cast away. Beloved, 
In your future all my past ; 
Such old phrases 
May be praises 
For some fairer bosom-queen — 
' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen ' 



;Eyes of mine, what are ye doing ? 
i Faithless, faithless — praised ami->3 
'if a tear be of your showing. 
Drop for any hope of HIS I 

Death hath boldness 

Besides coldness. 
If unworthy tears demean 
\' Sweetest eyes, were ever seen.' 

I'will look out to his future — 

1 will bless it till it shine : 
Should he ever be a suitor 
Unto sweeter eyes than mine. 
Sunshine gild them. 
Angels shield them. 
Whatsoever eyes terrene 
Be the sweetest his have .seen ! 

• She left lilm the ribftua Ironi her Imli. 



WINE OF CYPRUS 



97 



WINE OF CYPRUS. 

Given to me by H. S. Boyd, Esq. , author 
of " Select Passages from the Greek 
Fathers" etc., to 7vho»i these stan- 
zas are addressed. 

If old Bacchus were the speaker 

He would tell you with a sigh, 
Of the Cyprus in this beater 

I am sipping like a fly, — 
Like a fly or gnat on Ida 

At the hour of goblet-pledge. 
By Queen Juno brushed aside, a 

Full white arm-sweep, from the edge. 

Booth, the drinking should be ampler 

When the drink is so divine ; 
And some deep-mouthed Greek exem- 
plar 

Would become your Cyprus wine ; 
Cyclops' mouth would plunge aright in. 

While his one eye over-leered— 
Nor too large were mouth of Titan, 

Drinking rivers down his beard. 

Pan might dip his head so deep in 

That his ears alone pricked out ; 
Fauns around him, pressing, leaping. 

Each one pointing to his throat : 
While the Naiads like Bacchantes, 

Wild, with urns thrown out to waste, 
(jry— ' O earth, that thou wouldst grant 
us 

Springs to keep, of such a taste I' 

But for me, I am not worthy 

After gods and Greeks to drink ; 
And my lips are pale and earthy 

To go bathing from this brink I 
Since you heard them speak the last 
time. 

They have faded from their blooms ; 
And the laughter of my pastime 

Has learnt silence at the tombs. 

Ah, my friend 1 the antique drinkers 
Crowned the cup and crowned the 
brow : 

Can I answer the old thinkers 

In the forms they thought of, now ? 

Who will fetch from garden closes 
Some new garlands while I speak 1 



That the forehead, crowned with roses. 
May strike scarlet down the cheek ? 

Do not mock me 1 with my mortal, 

Suits no wreath again, indeed I 
I am sad- voiced as the turtle 

Which Anacreon used to feed : 
Yet as that same bird demurely 

Wet her beak in cup of his. 
So, without a garland, surely 

I may touch the brim of this. 

Go '.—let others praise the Chian ! — 

This is soft as Muses' string — 
This is tawny as Rhea's lion. 

This is rapid as its spring. 
Bright as Paphia's eyes e'er met us. 

Light as ever trod her feet ! 
And the brown bees of Hymettas 

Make their honey not so sweet. 

Very copious are my praises. 

Though I sip it like a fly !— 
Ah — but, sipping — times and places 

Change before me suddenly — 
As Ulysses' old libation 

Drew the ghosts from every part. 
So your Cyprus wine, dear Graecian, 

Stirs the Hades of my heart. 

And I think of those long mornings. 

Which my Thought goes far to seek. 
When, betwixt the folio's turnings. 

Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek. 
Past the pane the mountain spreading. 

Swept the sheep-bell's tinkling noise. 
While a girlish voice was reading. 

Somewhat low for rt/'s and oi's. 

Then what golden hours were for us !— 

While we sate together there. 
How the white vests of the chorus 

Seemed to wave up a live ah" ! 
How the cothurns trod majestic 

Down the deep iambic lines : 
And the rolling anapaestic 

Curled like vaporK)ver shrines 1 

Oh, our iEschylus, the thunderous ! 
How he drove the bolted breath 
Through the cloud, to wedge it pondci- 



C8 



Vi^INi; OF CYPRUS. 



In the gnarled oak beneath. 
Oh, our Sophocles, the royal. 

Who was born to monarch's place — 
And who made the whole world loyal, 

Less by kingly power than grace. 

Our Euripides, the human — 

With his droppings of warm tears ; 
And his touches of things common. 

Till they rose to touch the spheres I 
Our Theocritus, our Bion, 

And our Pindar's shining goals ! — 
These were cup-bearers undying, 

Of the wine that's meant for souls. 

And my Plato, the divine one. 

If men know the gods aright 
By their motions as they shine on 

With a glorious trail of light I 
And your noble Christian bishops, 

Who mouthed grandly the last Greek : 
Though the sponges on their hyssops 

Were distent with wine — too weak. 

Yet, your Chrysostom, you praised him 

As a liberal mouth of gola ; 
And your Basil, you upraised him 

To the height of speakers old : 
And we both praised Heliodorus 

For his secret of pure lies ; — 
Who forged first his linked stories 

In the heat of lady's eyes. 

And we both praised your Synesius, 

For the fire shot up his odes : 
Though the Church was scarce propi- 
tious 

As he whistled dogs and gods. 
And we both praised Nazianzen, 

For the fervid heart and speech : 
Only I eschewed his glancing 

At the lyre hung out of reach. 

Do you mind that deed of Ate, 

Which you bound me to so fast, — 
Reading " De Virginitate," 

From the first line to the last ? 
How I said at ending, solemn. 

As I turned and looked at you. 
That St. Simeon on the column 

Had had som^i^hat less to do ? 



For we sometimes gently wrangled | 

Very gently, be it said, 1 

For our thoughts were disentangled 

By no breaking of the thread ! 
And I charged you with extortions 

On the nobler fames of old — 
Ay, and sometimes thought your Persons 

Stained the purple they would fold. 

For the rest — a mystic moaning, 

Kept Cassandra at the gate. 
With wild eyes the vision shone in 

And wide nostrils scenting fate. 
And Prometheus, bound in passion 

By brute Force to the blind stone, 
Showed us looks of invocation 

Turned to ocean and the sun. 

And Medea we saw burning 

At her nature's planted stake ; 
And proud QLdipus, fate-scorning 

while the cloud came on to break — 
While the cloud came on slow — slower 

Till he stood discrowned, resigned ! 
But the reader's voice dropped lower 

When the poet called him blind 1 

Ah, my gossip 1 you were older. 

And more learned, and a man I 
Yet that shadow — the enfolder 

Of your quiet eyelids— ran 
Both our spirits to one level ; 

And I turned from hill and lea 
And the sinnmer-suns green revel. 

To your eyes that could vot see. 

Now Christ bless you with the one light 

Which goes shining night and day ! 
May the flowers which grow in sunlight 

Shed their fragrance in your way ! 
Is it not right to remember 

All your kindness, friend of mine. 
When we two sat in the chamber. 

And the poets poured us wine ? 

So, to come back to the drinking 

Of this Cyprus I^—it is well — 
But those memories, to my thinking. 

Make a better oenomel : 
And whoever be the speaker, 

None can murmur with a sigh 
That, in drinking from that beaker, 

I am sipping like a fly. 



THE DEAD PAN. 



99 



THE DEAD PAN. 

Excited by Schiller's 'Gutter Griechcn- 
lan<ls,' iiiiil partly tuiuiileil »u a well-known 
tra'l'tion meiitioued iu ;i treatise of Plutarch, 
^•■Do i)riicu!(iriim DeCectu,') accordius to wlilch, 
at the hour ol' the Saviour's agony, a cry of 
' Oroat Tail is dead !' swept across the waves 
in the healing- of certain mariners,— and the 
oracles ceased. 

It la in all veneration to the memory of the 
deathless Schiller, that I oppose a doctrine 
still more dishonoring to i)oetry than to Chris- 
tianity. 

As Mr. Kenyon's graceful and harmonious 
paraplirase of the German poem was the llrst 
occasion of the turuiii^ of my thoughts In this 
direction, I take advantapre of the pretence to 
In.lulfce my feelings (which overflow on other 
Ki°ounds> by inscribing my lyric to that dear 
Jilend and relative, with the earnestness of 
appreciating esteem as well as of affectionate 
gratitude. 

Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas, 
Can ye listen in your silence ? 
Can your mystic voices tell us 
Where ye hide ? In floating islands, 
With a wind that evermore 
Keeps you out of sight of shore ? 

Pan, Pan is dead. 



In what revels are ye sunken. 

In old Ethiopia ? 

Have the Pygmies made you drunken 

Bathing in mandragora 

Your divine pale lips that shiver 

Like the lotus in the river % 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

Do ye sit there still in slumber. 
In gigantic Alpine rows ? 
The black poppies out of number 
Nodding, dripping from your brows 
To the red lees of your wine. 
And so kept alive and fine ? 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

Or lie crushed your stagnant corses 
Where the silver spheres roll on. 
Stung to life by centric forces 
Thrown like rays out from the sim ? — 
While the smoke of your old altars 
Is the shroud that round you welters ? 
Great Pan is dead. 

Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas, 
Said the old Hellenic tongue ! 



Said the hero-oaths, as well as 
Poet's songs the sweetest sung, 
Have ye grown deaf in a day ? 
Can ye speak not yea or nay — 

Since Pan is dead ? 

Do ye leave your rivers flowing 

All along, O Naiades, 

While your drenched locks dry slow in 

This cold feeble sun and breeze ? 

Not a word the Naiads say. 

Though the rivers run for aye. 

For Pan is dead. 

From the gloaming of the oak wood, 
O ye Dryads, could ye flee ? 
At the rushing thunderstroke, would 
No sob tremble through the tree? — 
Not a word the Dryads say. 
Though the forests wave for aye. 
For Pan is dead. 

Have ye left the mountain places. 
Oreads wild, for other tryst? 
Shall we see no sudden faces 
Strike a glory through the niist ? 
Not a sound the silence thrills 
Of the everlasting hills. 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

O twelve gods of Plato's vision. 
Crowned to starry wanderings, — 
With your chariots in procession. 
And your silver clash of wings 1 
Very pale ye seem to rise. 
Ghosts of Grecian deities — 

Now Pan is dead ! 

Jove, that right hand is unloaded. 
Whence the thunder did prevail ; 
While in idiocy of godhead 
Thou art staring the stars pale ! 
And thine eagle, blind and old. 
Roughs his feathers in the cold. 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

Where, O Jimo, is the glory 
Of thy regal look and tread ! 
Will they lay, for evehnore, thee. 
On thy dim, straight golden bed ? 
Will thy queendom all lie hid 
Meekly under either lid ? 

Pan, Pan is dead. 



THE DEAD PAN. 



Ha, Apollo I Floats his golden 
Hair all mist-like where he stands ; 
While the Muses hang enfolding 
Knee and foot with faint wild hands ? 
'Neath the clanging of thy bow, 
Niobe looked lost as thou ! 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

Shall the casque with its brown iron, 
Pallas' broad blue eyes, eclipse 
And no hero take inspiring 
From the God-Greek of her lips ? 
'Neath her olive dost thou sit. 
Mars the mighty, cursing it ? 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

Bacchus, Bacchus ! on the panther 

He swoons, — bound with liis own vines ! 

And his Maenads slowly saunter. 

Head aside, among the pines. 

While they murmur dreamingly, 

' Evohe — ah — evohe — ! ' 

Ah, Pan is dead. 

Neptune lies beside the trident. 
Dull and senseless as a stone : 
And old Pluto deaf and silent 
Is cast out into the sun. 
Ctres smileth stern thereat, 
' We all now are desolate — ' 

Now Pan is dead. 

Aphrodite ! deail and driven 
As thy native foam, thou art. 
With the cestus long done heaving 
On the white calm of thy heart ! 
Ai Adonis ! At that shriek 
Not a tear runs down her cheek — 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

And the Loves we used to know from 
One another. — huddled lie, 
Frore as taken in a snow-storm, 
Close beside her tenderly, — 
As if each had weakly tried 
Once to kiss her as he died. 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

,What, and Hermes ! Time enthralleth 
All thy cunning, Hermes, thus, — 
And the ivy blindly crawleth 
Round thy brave caduceus ! 
Hast thou no new message for us. 
Full of thimder and Jove-glories ? 

Nay, Pan is dead. 



Crowned Cybele's great turret 
Rocks and crumbles on her head : 
Roar the lions of her chariot 
Towards the wilderness, unfed : 
Scornful children are not mute, — 
' Mother, mother, walk a-foot — 

Since Pan is dead I ' 

In the fiery-hearted centre 
Of the solemn universe. 
Ancient Vesta, — who could enter 
To consume thee with this curse ? 
Drop thy grey chin on thy knee, 
O thou palsied Mystery ! 

For Pan is dead. 

Gods ! we vainly do adjure you, — 
Ye return nor voice nor sign : 
Not a votary could secure you 
Even a grave for your Divine ! 
Not a grave, to .show thereby. 
Here these grey old gods do lie ! 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

Even that Greece who took your wages. 
Calls the obolus outworn ; 
And the hoarse deep-throated ages 
Laugh your godships unto scorn — 
And the Poets do disclaim you. 
Or grow colder if they name you — 
And Pan is dead. 

Gods bereaved, gods belated, 
With your purples lent asunder ! 
Gods discrowned and desecrated. 
Disinherited of thunder ! 
Now, the goats may climb and crop 
The soft grass on Ida's top — 

Now Pan is dead. 

Calm, of old, the bark went onward. 
When a cry more loud than wind. 
Rose up, deepened, and swept sunward. 
From the piled Dark behind : 
And the sun shrank and grew pale. 
Breathed against by the great wail — 
Pan, Pan is dead. 

And the rowers from the benches 
Fell, — each shuddering on his face — 
While departing Influences 
Struck a cold back through the place : 
And the shadow of the ship 
Reeled along the passive deep — 

Pun, Pan is dead. 



THE DEAD PAN. 



And that dismal cry rose slowly. 

And sank slowly through the air ; 

Full of spirit's melancholy 

And eternity's despair ! 

And they heard the words it said — 

Pan is dead — Great Pan is dead — 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

Twas the hour when One in Sion 
Hung for love's sake on a cross — 
When His brow was chill with dying. 
And His soul was faint with loss ; 
When his priestly blood dropped down- 
ward. 
And His kingly eyes looked throne - 
ward — 

Then, Pan was dead. 

By the love He stood alone in. 
His sole Godhead stood complete : 
And the false gods fell down moaning. 
Each from off his golden seat — 
All the false Gods with a cry 
Rendered up their deity — 

Pan, Pan was dead. 

Wailing wide across the islands. 
They rent, vest-like, their Divine ! 
And their darkness and a silence 
Quenched the light of every shrine : 
And Dodona'soak swang lonely 
Henceforth, to the tenipest only. 

Pan, Pan was dead. 

Pythia staggered, — feeling o'er her. 

Her lost god's forsaking look ! 

Straight her eye-balls filmed with horror. 

And her crispy fillets shook — 

And her lips gasped through their foam. 

For a word that did not come. 

Pan, Pan was dead. 

O ye vain false gods of Hellas, 
Ye are silent evermore ! 
And I dash down this old chalice. 
Whence libations ran of yore. 
See ! the wine crawls in the dust 
Wormlike — as your glories must ! 

Since Pan is dead. 

Get to dust, as common mortals. 
By a comnion doom and track ! 
Let no Schiller from the portals 



Of that Hades, call you back. 
Or instruct us to weep all 
At your antique funeral. 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

By your beauty, which confesses 
Some chief Beauty conquering you, — 
By our grand heroic guesses, 
Through your falsehood, at the True, — 
We will weep not. ,..! earth shall roll 
Heir to each god's aureole — 

And Pan is dead. 

Earth outgrows the mythic fancies 
Sung beside her in her youth : 
And those debonaire romances 
Sound but dull beside the truth. 
Phoebus' chariot-course is run ! 
Look up, poets, to the sun ! 

Pan, Pan is dead. 

Christ hath sent us down the angels ; 

And the whole earth and the .skies 

Are illumed by altar candles 

Lit for blessed mysteries : 

And a Priest's Hand through creation, 

Waveth calm and consecration— 

And Pan is dead. 

Truth is fair : should we forego It ? 
Can we sigh right for a wrong ? 
God Himself is the best Poet, 
And the Real is His song. 
Sing his Truth out fair and full. 
And secure his beautiful. 

Let Pan be dead. 

Truth is large. Our aspiration 
Scarce embraces half we be. 
Shame ! to stand in His creation 
And doubt Truth's sufficiency ! 
To think God's song unexcelling 
The poor tales of our own telling — 

When Pan is dead. 

What is true and just and honest. 
What is lovely, what 4s pure — 
All of praise that hath admonish' d — 
All of virtue shall endure, — 
These are themes for poets' uses. 
Stirring nobler than the Muses, 

Ere Pan was dead. 



SLEEPING AND WATCHING. 



O brave poets, keep back nothing ; 
Nor mix falsehood with the whole ! 
Look up Godward ! speak the truth in 
Worthy song from earnest soul ! 
Hold, in high poetic duty, 
Truest Truth the fairest Beauty I 

Pan, Pan is dead. 



SLEEPING AND WATCHING. 

Sleep on. Baby, on the floor. 

Tired of all the playing. 
Sleep with smile the sweeter for 

That you dropped away in ! 
On your curls' full roundness, stand 

Golden lights serenely — 
One cheek, pushed out by the hand. 

Folds the dimple inly : 
Little head and little foot 

Heavy laid for pleasure. 
Underneath the lids half shut. 

Slants the shining azure ; — 
Open-soul in noonday sun. 

So, you lie and slumber ! 
Nothing evil having done. 

Nothing can encumber. 

/, who cannot sleep as well. 

Shall I sigh to view you ? 
Or sigh further to foretell 

All that may undo you ? 
Nay, keep smiling, little child. 

Ere the sorrow neareth. 
/will smile too ! Patience mild 

Pleasure's token weareth. 
Nay, keep sleeping before loss ; 

/shall sleep though losing I 
As by cradle, so by cross. 

Sure is the reposing. 

And God knows who sees us twain. 

Child at childish leisure, 
I am near as tired of pain 

As you seem of pleasure ; 
Very soon too, by His grace 

Gently wrapt around me. 
Shall I show as calm a face, 

Shall I sleeo as soundly 1 
Differing in this. \\\'xX.you 

Clasp your playthings sleeping. 
While my hand shall drop the few 

Given to my keeping ; 



Differing in this, that / 

Sleeping shall be colder. 
And in waking presently. 

Brighter to beholder ! 
Differing in this beside 

(Sleeper, have you heard me t 
Do you move, and open wide 

Eyes of wonder towards me ?) — 
That while you, I thus recall 

From your sleep, — I solely. 
Me from mine an angel shall. 

With reveille holy ! 



LESSONS FROM THE GORSE. 

" To win the secret of a weed's plain heart.^ 
Lowell. 

Mountain gorses, ever golden ! 
Cankered not the whole year long ! 
Do you teach us to be strong. 
Howsoever pricked and holden 
Like your thorny blooms, and so 
Trodden on by rain and snow 
Up the hill-side of this life, as bleak as 
where ye grow ? 

Motmtain blossoms, shining blossoms I 
Do ye teach us to be glad 
When no summer can be had. 
Blooming in our inward bosoms? 
Ye, whom God preserveth still. 
Set as lights upon a hill 
Tokens to the wintry earth that Beauty 
liveth still ! 

Mountain gorses, do ye teach us 
From that academic chair 
Canopied with azure air. 
That the wisest word Man reaches 
Is the humblest he can speak ? 
Ye, who live on mountain peak. 
Yet live low along the ground, beside 
the grasses meek ! 

Mountain gorses ! since Linnaeus 
Knelt beside you on the sod. 
For your beauty thanking God, — 
P'or your teaching, ye shoidd see us 
Bowing in prostration new. 
Whence arisen, — if one or two 
Drops be on our cheeks — O world ! they 
are not tears, but dew. 



A SABBATH MORNING AT SEA. 



'03 



THE CLAIM. 



Grief sate upon a rock and sighed one 
day : 
(Sighing is all lier rest ! 
• Wellaway, wellaway, ah, wellaway 1' 
As ocean beat the stone, did she her 

breast. . . * 
' Ah, wellaway ! . . ah me ! alas, ah 
me!' 
Such sighing uttered she. 

II. 
A Cloud spake out of heaven, as soft as 
rain 
That falls on water : " Lo, 
The Winds have wandered from me ! I 

remain 
Alone in the sky-waste, and cannot go 
To lean my whiteness on the mountain 
blue, 
Till wanted for more dew. 

III. 
' The Sun has struck my brain to weary 
peace. 
Whereby, constrained and pale, 
I spin for him a larger golden fleece 
Than Jason's, yearning for as full a sail I 
Sweet Grief, when thou hast sighed to 
thy mind. 
Give me a sigh for wind, — 



And let it carry me adown the west ! ' 

But Love, who, prostrated. 
Lay at Grief's foot, . . his lifted eyes 



Of her full image, . . answered in her 

stead : 
' Now nay, now nay ! she shall not give 

away 
What is my wealth, for any Cloud that 

flieth. 
Where Grief makes moan, 
Love claims his own ! 
And therefore do I lie here night and 

day. 
And eke my life out with the breath 

she sigheth.' 



A SABBATH MORNING Al' SEA. 



The ship went on with solemn face : 
To meet the darkness on the deep. 
The solemn ship went onward. 
I bowed down weary in the place ; 
For parting tears and present sleep 
Had weighed mine eyelids down- 
ward. 



Thick sleep which shut all dreams from 
me, 
And kept my inner self apart 
And quiet from emotion. 
Then brake away and left me free. 
Made conscious of a human heart 
Betwixt the heaven and ocean. 



The new sight, the new wondrous sight I 
The waters round me, turbulent. 
The skies impassive o'er me. 

Calm in a moonless, sunless light. 
Half glorified by that intent 
Of holding the day-glory ! 

IV, 

Two pale thin clouds did stand upon 
The meeting line of sea and sky. 
With aspect still and mystic. 
I think they did foresee the sun. 
And rested on their prophecy 
In quietude majestic ; 



Then flushed to radiance where they 
stood. 
Like statues by the open tomb 
Of shining saints half risen. — 
The sun ! — he came up to be viewed ; 
And sky and sea made mighty room 
To inaugurate the vision I 



oft had seen the dawnlight run, 
As red wine, through the hills, and 
break 
Through many a raist's inurning ; 



THE MASK. 



J>ut, hero, no earth profaned the sun ! 
Heaven, ocean, did alone partake 
I'he sacrament of moniincr. 



Away with thoughts fantastical ! 

1 would be humble to my worth, 

Self-guarded as self-doubted. 

Though here no earthly shadows fall, 

I, joying, grieving without earth. 

May desecrate without it. 

VIII. 

God's Sabbath morning sweeps the 
waves : 
I would not praise the pageant high, 
Yet miss the dedicature : 
I, carried towards the sunless graves 
By force of natural things, — should I 
Exult in only nature ? 



And could I bear to sit alone 
'Mid nature's fixed benignities. 

While my warm pulse was moving. 
Too dark thou art, O glittering sun. 
Too strait ye are, capacious seas, 
To satisfy the loving. 



It seems a better lot than 59, 
To sit with friends beneath the beech. 
And call them dear and dearer ; 
Or follow children as they go 

In pretty pairs, with softened speech 
As the church-bells ring nearer. 



Love me, sweet friends, this Sabbath 
day. 
The sea sings roimd me while ye roll 
Afar the hymn unaltered, 
And kneel, where once I knelt to pray. 
And bless me deeper in the soul. 
Because the voice has faltered. 



And though this Sabbath comes to me 
Without the stoled mmister 
Or chanting congregation, 
God's spirit brings communion, He 
Who brooded soft on waters drear. 
Creator 011 creation. 



Himself, I think, sliall draw mc j-.iglier, 
'Where keep the saints with harp and 
song 
An endless Sabbath morning. 
And on that sea commixed with fire 
Oft drop their eyelids raised too long 
To the full Godhead's burning. 



THE MASK. 



I HAVE a smiling face, she said, 
I have a jest for all I meet ; 

I have a garland for my head 
And all its flowers are sweet, — 

And so you call me gay, she said 



Grief taught to mc this smile, she said, I 

And Wrong did teach this jesting ^ 

bold ; |i 

These flowers were plucked from gar- I 

den -bed 

While a death-chime was tolled — I 

And what now will you say ? — she said. J 



Behind no prison -grate, she said, 
Which slurs the sunshine half a 

Live captives so uncomforted. 
As souls behind a smile. 

God's pity let us pray, she said. 



I know my face is bright, she said, — 
Such brightness, dying suns difl'use ! 

I bear upon my forehead shed 
The sign of what I lose, — 

The ending of my day, she said. 



If I dared leave this smile, she said. 
And take a moan upon my mouth. 

And tie a cypress round my head. 
And let my tears run smooth, — 

It were the happier way, she said. 



THE YOUNG QUEEN. 



And since that must not be, she said, 
1 fain your bitter world would leave. 

How calmly, calmly, smile the Dead, 
Who do not, therefore, grieve ! 

The yea of Heaven is yea, she said. 



lUit in your bitter world, she said. 
Face-joy's a costly mask to wear, 

'Tis bought with pangs long nourished 
And rounded to despair. 

Grief's earnest makes life's play, she 
said. 



Ye weep for those who weep? she said — 
Ah fools ! I bid you pass them by ; 

Go, weep for those whose hearts have 
bled. 
What time their eyes were dry ! 

Whom sadder can I say ? — she said. 



.STANZAS. 

I MAY sing ; but minstrel's singing 
Ever ceaseth with his playing. 
I may smile ; but time is bringing 
Thoughts for smiles to wear away in 
1 may view thee, mutely loving ; 
But shall view thee so in dying 1 
I may sigh ; but life's removing. 
And with breathing endeth sighing ! 
Be it so ! 

When no song of mine comes near thee. 
Will its memory fail to soften ? 
When no smile of mine can cheer thee. 
Will thy .smile be used as often ? 
When my looks the darkness boundeth. 
Will thine own be lighted after ? 
When my sigh no longer soundeth, 
"Wilt thou list another's laughter ? 

Be it so ! 



THE YOUNG QUEEN. 

Thla awful responsibility is imposed ujotii 
mo BO suddenly and at bo early a period ol' my 
life, tUat I should feel myself utterly oppressed 



l>y tlie burden, wore I not sustained by the 
hope that Uiviue Trovidence, which has c»lled 
me to this work, will give me strength for the 
jierlormauce of it. 

TUK (iUEKN'8 DF.CI.AltATION IN COUNCIL. 

The .shroud is yet unspread 
To wrap our crowned dead ; 
His soul hath scarcely barkened for the 
thrilling word of doom ; 
And death that makes serene 
Ev'n brows where crowns have been. 
Hath scarcely tmie to meeten his, for 
silence of the tomb. 



St. Paul's king-dirging note 
The city's heart hath smote — 
The city's heart is struck with thouglit 
more solemn than the tone ! 
A shadow sweeps apace 
Before the Nation's face. 
Confusing in a shapeless blot, the scpuU 
chre and throne. 

The palace sounds with wail— 
The courtly dames are pale — 
A widow o'er the purple bows, and 
weeps its splendor dim : 
And we who hold the boon, 
A king for freedom won. 
Do feel eternity rise up between our 
thanks and him. 

And while things express 
All glory's nothingness, 
A royal maiden treadeth firm where 
that departed trod ! 
The deathly scented crown 
Weighs her shming ringlets down ; 
But calm .she lifts her trusting face, and 
calleth upon God. 

Her thoughts are deep within her : 
No outward pageants win her 
From memories that in her soul are 
rolling wave or|^ wave — 
Her palace walls enring 
The dust that was a king — 
And very cold beneath her feet, she 
feels her father's grave. 

And One, as fair as she. 
Can scarce forgotten be, — 



io6 



VICTORIA'S TEARS. 



Who clasped a little infant dead, for all 
a kingdom's worth ! 
The mourned, blessed One, 
Who views Jehovah's throne. 
Aye smiling to the angels, that she lost 
a throne on earth. 

Perhaps our youthful Queen 
Remembers what has been — 
Her childhood's rest by loving heart, 
and sport on grassy sod — 
Alas ! can others wear 
A mother's heart for her? 
But calm she lifts her trusting face, and 
callcth upon God. 

Yea ! on God, thou maiden 
Of spirit nobly laden. 
And leave such happy days behind, for 
happy-making years ! 
A nation looks to thee 
For steadfast sympathy : 
Make room within thy bright clear eyes, 
for all its gathered tears. 

And so the grateful isles 
Shall give thee back their smiles, 
And as thy mother joys in thee, in them 
shalt thou rejoice ; 
Rejoice to meekly bow 
A somewhat paler brow. 
While the King of kings shall bless thee 
by the British people's voice 1 



VICTORIA'S TEARS. 

Hark ! the reiterated clanpor sounds 1 
Now murinurs, like the flea or like the Btorm, 
Or like the tlanies on forestB, move and mount 
From rank to rank, and loud and loud«r roll, 
Till all the people is ouo vast applause. 

Lanuku's Gebir. 

" O MAIDEN ! heir of kings ! 

A king has left his place ! 
The majesty of death has swept 

All other from his face ! 
And thou upon thy mother's breast. 

No longer lean adown. 



But take the glory for the rest. 
And rule the land that loves thee best !" 
She heard and wept — 
She wept, to wear a crown ! 

They decked her courtly halls ; 
They reined her hundred steeds ; 
They shouted at her palace gate, 

'* A noble Queen succeeds !" 
Her name has stirred the mountain's 
sleep 
Her praise has filled the town ! 
And mourners God had stricken deep. 
Looked hearkening up, and did not 
weep. 
Alone she wept. 
Who wept, to wear a crown ! 

She saw no purple shine. 

For tears had dimmed her eyes ; 
She only knew her childhood's flowers s 

Were happier pageantries 1 
And while her heralds played the part, , 

For million shouts to drown — 
" God save the Queen " from hill tO'i 

mart, — 
She heard through all her beating heart.t 
And turned and wept— 

She wept, to wear a crown I 

God save thee, weeping Queen I 

Thou shalt be well beloved I 
The tyrant's sceptre cannot move. 

As those pure tears have moved ! 
The nature in thine eyes we see. 

That tyrants cannot own — 
The love that guardeth liberties ! 
Strange blessing on the nation lies. 
Whose Sovereign wept — 

Yea! wept, to wear its crown ! 

God bless thee, weeping Queen, 

With blessing more divine ! 
And fill with happier love than earth's. 

That tender heart of thine ! 
That when the thrones of earth shall hii 

As low as graves brought down ; 
A pierced hand may give to thee 
The crown which angels shout to se€ I 
Thou wilt not zuecp. 

To wear that heavenly crown ! 



ROMANCE OF THE SIVAN'S NEST 



ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S 
NEST. 

So the dreams depart, 
So tbo fadiit? phautuniB flee, 
And the sharp reality 
Now must act its part. 
Wkstwood'8 ' Beads from a Rosart. 



Little EUie sits alone 
Mid the beeches of a meadow. 

By a stream-side on the grass ; 

And the trees are showering down 
Doubles of their leaves in shadow. 

On her shining hair and face. 

She has thrown her bonnet by ; 
And her feet she has been dippmg 

In the shallow water's flow — 

Now she holds them nakedly 
In her hands, all sleek and dripping 

While she rocketh to and fro. 



Little EUie sits alone. 
And the smile she softly uses. 

Fills the silence like a speech ; 

While she thinks what shall be done,- 
And the sweetest pleasure chooses. 

For licr future within reach. 



Little Ellie in her smile 
Chooseth 'I will have a lover. 

Riding on a steed of steeds ! 

He shall love me without guile ; 
And to him I will discover 

That swan's nest among the reeds. 

' And the steed shall be red-roan 
And the lover shall be noble, 

With an eye that takes the breath. 

And the lute he plays upon. 
Shall strike ladies mto trouble. 

As his sword strikes men to death. 



' And the steed it shall be shod 
All in silver, housed in azure. 

And the mane shall swim the wind : 

And the hoofs along the sod 
Shall flash onward and keep measure. 

Till the shepherds look behind. 



• But my lover will not prize 
All the glory that he rides in. 

When he gazes in my face. 
He will say, ' O Love, thine eyes 
Build the shrine my soul abides m ; 
And I kneel here for thy grace.' 

' Then, ay, then — he shall kneel low. 
With the red-roan steed ancar him 

Which shall seem to understand — 

Till I answer, ' Rise and go ! 
For the world must love and fear him 

Whom I gift with heart and hand.' 

' Then he will arise so pale, 
I shall feel my own lips tremble 

With a yes I must not say — 

Nathless maiden-brave, ' Farewell,' 
I will utter and dissemble — 

' Light to-morrow with to-day.' 

'Then he'll ride among the hills 
To the wide world past the river. 

There to put away all wrong : 
To make straight distorted wills. 
And to empty the broad quiver 

Which the wicked bear along. 

' Three times shall a young foot-page 
Swim the stream and climb the mountain 

And kneel down beside my feet — 

' Lo ! my master sends this gage. 
Lady, for thy pity's counting ! 

What wilt thou exchange for it V 

'And the first-.time, I will send 
A white rosebud for a guerdon, — 

And the second time a glove : 

But the third time — I may bend 
From my pride, and answer — ' Pardon — 

If he comes to take my love.' 

• Then the young foot-page will run — 
Then my lover will ride faster, 

Till he kneeleth at my knee : 
' I am a duke's eldest son ! 
Thousand serfs do call me master, — 
But, O Love, I love but thee ! 

'He will kiss me on the mouth 
Then ; and lead me as a lover. 

Through the crowds that praise his 
deeds : 



to8 



A MAN'S REQUIREMENTS. 



And, when soul-tied by one trolh, 
Unto him I will discover 
That swan's nest among the reeds.' 

Little Ellie, with her smile 
Not yet ended, rose up gayly, 

Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe — 

And went homeward, round a mile. 
Just to see, as she did daily. 

What more eggs were with the two. 

Pushing through the elm- tree copse 
Winduig by the stream, light-bi^earted. 

Where the osier pathway loads — 

Past the bouglis she stor.ps — and stops 
Lo! the wild swan had deserted — 

And a rat had gnawed the reeds. 

Ellic want honi ^ sad and slow : 
If she found the lover ever. 

With liis red-roan steed of steeds. 

Sooth I know not I but I know 
She could never show him — never, 

Tliat swan's nest among the reeds ! 



A MAN'S REQUIREMENTS. 



Love mc, sweet, with all thou art. 
Feeling, thinking, seeing, — 

Love me in the lightest part. 
Love me in full being. 



Love mc with thine open youth 
In its frank surrender; 

With the vowing of thy mouth. 
With Its silence tender. 



Love mc with thine azure eyes. 
Made for earnest granting ! 

Taking color from the skies. 

Can Jieaven', trulh be wantinfr? 



Love me with their lids, that fall 
Snow-like at first meeting : 

Love me with thine heart, that all 
The neighbors then see beating. 



Love me with thine hand stretched out 

Freely — open-minded : 
Love me with thy loitering foot,— 

Hearing one behind it. 



Love me with thy voice, that turns 
Sudden faint above me ; 

Love me with thy blush that burns 
When I murmur ' Love me ! ' 



Love me with thy thinking .soul — 

Break it to love-sighing ; 
Love me with thy thoughts that roll 

On through living — dying. 



Love me in thy gorgeous airs, 

When the world has crowned thee ! 

Love me, kneeling at thy prayers, 
With the angels round thee 



Love mc pure, as musers do. 
Up the woodlands shady : 

Love me gaily, fast, and true. 
As a winsome lady. 



Through all hopes that keep us brave. 

Further off or nigher. 
Love me for the house and grave, — 

And for something higher. 



XI. 

Thus, if thou wilt prove me, dear. 

Woman's love no fable, 
/_\vin love 2'//i'f— half-a-yeai^r — 
~As a iiian is able. 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 
PROMKTHKUS. HePH^STUS. 

OcKANUS. lo, daughter of Inaclius. 

IIkrmes. Strenqth and Fokck. 

CuoKUS ol Ocean Nyun>ljs. 

SCKNE.— StKENQTII ttnd FOUCK, HKPUJiSTUS 

((ltd FKOMKTUKua at the liucks. 
Streiigth. 
We reach the utmost limit of the earth. 
The Scythian track, the desert without 

man. 
And now, Hephaestus, thou must needs 

fulfil 
The mandate of our father, and with 

links 
Indissoluble of adamantine chains. 
Fasten against tliis beetling precipice 
This guilty god ! Because he filched 

away 
Thine own bright flower, the glory of 

plastic fire, 
And gifted mortals with it, — sucli a sin 
It doth behove he expiate to the gods. 
Learning to accept the empery of Zeus, 
And leave off his old trick of loving man. 
HepJuestiis. O Strength and Force, — 

for you, or Zeus's will 
Presents a deed for doing. — No more ! 

—but /, 
I lack your daring, up this storm-rent 

chasm 
To fix with violent hands a kindred god, 
Howbeit necessity compels me so 
That I must dare it, — and our Zeus com- 
mands 
With a most inevitable word. Ho, thou 1 
High-thoughted son of Themis who is 

sage. 
Thee loth, I loth must rivet fast in 

chains 
Against this rocky height unclomb by 

man, 
Where never human voice nor face shall 

find 
Out thee who lov'st lliem ! — and thy 

, beauty's flower. 



Scorched in the sun's clear heat, shall 
fade away. 

Night shall come up with garniture of 
stars 

To comfort thee with shadow, and the 
sun 

Disperse with retrickt beams the morn- 
ing frosts ; 

And through all changes, sense of pres- 
ent woe 

Shall ve.x thee sore, because with none 
of them 

There comes a hand to free. Such fruit 
is plucked 

From love of man ! — for in that thou, a 
god. 

Didst brave the wrath of gods and give 
away 

Undue respect to mortals ; for that 
crime 

Thou art adjudged to guard this joyless 
rock. 

Erect, unslumbering, bending not the 
knee. 

And many a cry and unavailing moan 

To utter on the air ! For Zeus ls stern, 

And new-made kings are cruel. 

Strength. Be it so. 

Why loiter in vain pity ? Why not hate 

A god the gods hate ? — one too who be- 
trayed 

Thy glory unto men ? 

Hcphcestus. An awful thing 

Is kinship joined to friendship. 

Strength. Grant it be ; 

Is disobedience to the Father's word 

A possible thing ? Dost quail not more 
for that ? 
Hephcesttis. Thou, at least, art a 

stern one ! ever bold ! 
Strength. Why, if I wept, it werQ 
no remedy. 

And do not thou spend labor on the air 

To bootless uses. 

Ilcphiestus. Cursed handicraft ! 

I curse and hate thee, O my craft I 
Strength. Why hate 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



Thy craft most plainly innocent of all 
These pending ills ? 

HephcEstus. I would some other hand 
Were here to work it ! 

Strength. All work hath its pain, 

Except to rule the gods. There is none 

free 
Except King Zeus. 

Hephcestus. I know it very well : 

I argue not against it. 

Strength. Why not, then, 

Hake haste and lock the fetters over 

HIM, 

Lest Zeus behold thee lagging ? 

Hephcestus. Here be chains. 

Zeus may behold these. 

Strength. Seize him, — strike amain ! 
Strike with the hammer on each side his 

han ds — 
Rivet him to the rock. 

Hephcestus. The work is done. 

And thoroughly done. 

Strength. Still faster grapple him, — 
Wedge him in deeper, — leave no inch 

to stir ! 
He's terrible for finding a way out 
From the irremediable. 

Hephcestus. Here's an arm, at least. 
Grappled pa.st freeing. 

Strength. Now, then, buckle me 
The other securely. Let this wise one 

learn 
He's duller than our Zeus. 

Hephcestus. Oh, none but he 

Accitse me justly! 

Strength. Now, straight through the 
chest. 
Take him and bite him with the clench- 
ing tooth 
Of the adamantine wedge, and rivet 
him. 
Hephcestus. Alas, Prometheus ! what 
thou sufferest here 
I sorrow over. 

Strength. Dost thou flinch again. 
And breathe groans for the enemies of 

Zeus ? 
Beware lest thine own pity find thee 
out. 
Hephcestus. Thou dost behold a spec- 
tacle that turns 
The sight o' the eyes to pity. 

Strength. I behold 
4 sinner suffer his sin's penalty. 



But lash the thongs about his sides. 

Hephcestus. So mucV>, 

I must do. Urge no farther than I must. 

Strength. Ay, but I ivill urge ! — 

and, with shout on shout. 
Will hound thee at this quarry ! Get 

thee down 
And ring amain the iron round his legs! 
Hephcestus. That work was not long 

doing. 
Strength. Heavily now 

Let fall the strokes upon the perforant 

gyves ! 
For He who rates the work has a heavy 

hand. 
Hephcestus. Thy speech is savage as 

thy shape. 
Strength. Be thou 

Gentle and tender! but revile not me 
For the firm will and the untruckling 

hate. 
Hephcestus. Let us go! He is netted 

round with chains. 
Strength. Here, now, taunt on ! and 

having spoiled the gods 
Of honors, crown withal thy mortal men 
Who live a whole day out ! Why how 

could they 
Draw off from thee one single of thy 

griefs ? 
Methinks the Demons gave thee a wrong 

name, 
Prometheus, which means Providence^ 

because 
Thou dost thyself need providence to 

see 
Thy roll and ruin from the top of doom, 
Prometheus alone. O holy iEther. 

and swift winged Winds, 
And River-wells, and laughter innumer- 

ous 
Of yon Sea-waves ! Earth, mother or 

us all. 
And all-viewing cyclic Sun, I cry on 

you ! — 
Behold me a god, what I endure from 

gods! 

Behold with throe on throe. 

How, wasted by this woe, 
I wrestle down the myriad years of 

Time ! 
Behold, how fast around me. 
The new King of the happy ones sub- 
lime 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



Has flung the chain he forged, has 
shamed and bound me ! 

Woe, woe ! to day's woe and the com- 
ing morrow's, 

I cover with one groan 1 And where is 
found me 
A hmit to these sorrows ? ^ 

And yet what word do I say ? I have 
foreknown 

Clearly all things that should be — noth- 
ing done 

Comes sudden to my soul — and I must 
bear 

What is ordained with patience, being 
aware 

Necessity doth front the imiverse 

With an invincible gesture. Yet this 
curse 

Which strikes me now, I find it hard to 
brave 

In silence or in speech. Because I gave 

Honor to mortals, I have yoked my soul 

To this compelling fate 1 Because I 
stole 

The secret fount of fire, whose bubbles 
went 

Over the ferule's brim, and manward 
sent 

Art's mighty means and perfect rudi- 
ment. 

That sin I expiate in this agony ; 

Hung here in fetters, 'neath the blanch- 
ing sky ! 
Ah, ah me ! what a sound. 

What a fragrance sweeps up from a 
pinion unseen 

Of a god, or a mortal, or nature between. 

Sweeping up to this rock where the earth 
has her bound, 

To have sight of my pangs, — or some 
guerdon obtain — 

Lo 1 a god in the anguish, a god in the 
chain ! 
The god, Zeus hateth sore 
And his gods hate again. 

As many as tread on his glorified floor. 

Because I loved mortals too much ever- 
more ! 

Alas me ! what a murmur and motion I 
hear. 
As of birds flying near ! 
And the air uudersings 
The light stroke of their wings — 



And all life that approaches I wait for 
in fear. 

Chorus of Sea Nymphs, xst Strophe. 
P'ear nothing ! our troop 
Floats lovingly up 
With a quick-oarmg stroke 
Of wings steered to the rock ; 
Having softened the soul of our father 

below ! 
For the gales of swift-bearing have sent 

me a sound. 
And the clank of the iron, the malleled 
blow. 
Smote down the profound 
Of my caverns of old. 
And struck the red light in a blush from 

my brow, — 
Till I sprang up unsandalled, in haste to 

behold. 
And rushed forth on my chariot of 
wings manifold. 
Prometheus. Alas me ! — alas me ! 
Ye offspring of Tethys who bore at her 

breast 
Many children ; and eke of Oceanus, — 

he. 
Coiling still aroimd earth with perpetual 
unrest ; 

Behold me and see 
How transfixed with the fang 
Of a fetter I hang 
On the high jutting rocks of this fissure, 

and keep 
An uncoveted watch o'er the world and 
the deep. 

Chorus, ist Antistrophc. 

I behold thee, Prometheus — yet now, 
yet now, 

A terrible cloud whose rjiin is tears 

Sweeps over mine eyes that witness how 
Thy body appears 

Hung awaste on the rocks by infrangi- 
ble chains ! 

For new is the hand and the rudder that 
steers ^ 

The ship of Olympus through surge and 
wind — 

And of old things passed, no track is 
behind. 

Prometheus. Under earth, under Hades, 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



Where the home of the shade is. 
All into the deep, deep Tartarus, 

1 would he had hurled me adown ! 
I would he had plunged mc, fastened 

thus 
In the knotted chain with the savage 

clang, 
All into the dark, where there should be 

none, 
Neither god nor another, to laugh and 

see ! 
But now the winds sing through and 

shake 
The hurtling chains wherein I hang — 
And I, in my naked sorrows, make 
Much mirth for my enemy. 

Chorus, id StropJic. 

Nay ! who of the gods hath a heart so 
stern 

As to use thy woe for a mock and 
mirth ? 
Who would not turn more mild to learn 

Thy sorrows ? who of the heaven and 
earth. 

Save Zeus ? But he 

Right wrathfully 
Pears on his sccptral soul unhent, 
And rules thereby the heavenly seed ; 
Nor will he pause till he content 
His thirsty heart in a finished deed ; 
Or till Another shall appear. 
To win by fraud, to seize by fear 
The hard-to-be-captured government. 

Pro7nethcus. Yet even of 7nc he shall 
have need. 
That monarch of the blessed seed ; 
Of me, of me, who now am cursed 

By his fetters dire, — 
To ring my secret out withal 

And learn by whom hlssceptre shall 
Be filched from him — as was, at first, 

His heavenly fire ! 
But he never shall enchant mc 

With his honey-lipped persuasion ; 
Never, never shall he daimt mc 

With the oath and threat of passion. 
Into speaking as they want me, 
Till he loose this savage chain. 

And accept the e.vpiation 
Of my sorrow, in his pain. 



Chorus, "id Anii'stro^he. 

Thou art, sooth, a brave god. 

And, for all thou hast borne 
From the the stroke of the rod. 

Nought relaxest from scorn ! 
But thou speakest imto me 

Too free and unworn — 
And a terror strikes through me 

And festers my soul ' 

And I fear, in the roll 
Of the storm, for thy fate 

In the ship far from shore — 
Since the son of Satuinius is hard in his 
hate 

And unmoved in his heart evermore. 



Prometheus. I know that Zeus is 

stern ! 
I know he metes his justice by his will 1 
And yet his soul shall learn 
More softness when once broken by this 

ill,— 
And curbing his unconquerable vaunt 
He shall rush on in fear to meet with 

me 
Who rush to meet with him in agony, 
To issues of harmonious covenant. 
Chorus. Remove the veil from all 

things, and relate 
The story to us ! — of what crime accused, 
Zeus smites thee with dishonora-ble 

pangs. 
Speak ! if to teach vis do not grieve thy- 
self. 
Prometheus. The utterance of these 

things is torture to me. 
But so, too, is their silence ! each way 

lies 
Woe strong as fate ! 

When gods began with wrath. 
And war rose up between their starry 

brows, 
Some choosing to cast Chronos from his 

throne 
That Zeus might king it there ; and 

some in haste 
With opposite oaths that they would 

have no Zeus 
To rule the gods forever, — I, who 

brought 
The coun.sel I thought meetest, could not 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



'3. 



The Titnns. children of the Heaven and 

Earth, 
V/hat time disdaining in their rugged 

souls 
My subtle machinations, they assunied 
It was an easy thing for force to take 
The mastery of fate. My mother, then, 
Who is called not only Themis but Earth 

too, 
(Her single beauty joys in many names,) 
Did teach ma with reiterant prophecy 
What future should be, — and how con- 
quering gods 
Should not prevail by strength and vio- 
lence. 
But by guile only. When I told them 

so 
They would not deign to contemplate 

the truth 
On all sides round ; whereat I deemed 

it best 
To lead my willing mother upwardly. 
And set my Themis face to face with 

Zeus 
As willing to receive her ! Tartarus, 
With its abysmal cloister of the Dark, 
Uecause 1 gave that counsel, covers up 
The antique Chronos and his siding 

hosts ; 
And, by that counsel helped, the king of 

Hath recompensed me with these bitter 

pangs ! 
For kingship wears a cancer at the 

heart, — 
Distrust in friendship. Do ye also ask. 
What crime it is for which he tortures 

me— 
That shall be clear before you. When 

at first 
He filled his father's throne, he instantly 
Made various gifts of glory to the godSj_ 
And dealt the Empire out. Alone of 

men. 
Of miserable men he took no count, 
Bat yearned to sweep their track ofT 

from the v/orld, 
And plant a newer race there I Not a 

god 
Re-isted such desire except myself! 
/ dared it ! / drew mortals back to 

light, 
From meditated ruin deep as hell, — 



For which wrong I am bc;it down in 

these pangs 
Dreadful to sutler, mournful to behold, — 
And I, who pitied man, am thought 

myself 
Unworthy of pity, — while I render out 
Deep rhythms of anguish 'neath the 

harping hand 
That strikes me thus ! — a sight to shame 
your Zeus I 
Chorus. Hard as thy chains, and 
cold as all these rocks. 
Is he, Prometheus, who withholds his 

heart 
From joining in thy woe. I yearned 

before 
To fly this sight — and, now I gaze on it, 
I sicken inwards. 

Prometheus. To my friends, indeed, 
I must be a sad sight. 

Chorus. And didst thou sin 

No more than so ? 

PrometJieus. I did restrain besides 
My mortals from premeditating death. 
Chorus. How didst thou medicine 

the plague-fear of death ? 
Prometheus. I set blind Hopes to 

inhabit in their house. 
Chorus. By that gift, thou didst help 

thy mortals well. 

Prometheus. I gave them also,— fire. 

Chorus. And have they now. 

Those creatures of a day, the red-eyed 

fire? 

Prometheus. They have ! and shall 

learn by it many arts. 
Chorus. And, truly, for such sins 
Zeus tortures thee. 
And will remit no anguish? Is there 

set 
No limit before thee to thine agony ? 
Prometheus. No other! only what 

seems good to him. 
Chorus. And how will it seem good ? 
what hope remains ? 
Secst thou not that thou hast sinned ? 

But that thou hast sinned 
It glads me not to speak of, and grieves 

thee — 
Then let it pass from both ! and sc-ck 

thyself 
Some outlet from distress. 

Prometheus. It is in truth 



114 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



An easy thing to stand aloof from pain 

And lavish exhortation and advice 

On one vexed sorely by it. I have 

known 
All in prevision! By my choice, my 

choice, 
I freely sinned— I will confess my sm— 
And helping mortals, found mine own 

despair ! 
I did not think indeed that I should pme 
Beneath such pangs against such skiey 

rocks. 
Doomed to this drear hill and no neigh- 
boring 
Of any life !— but mourn x\o\.ye for griefs 
1 bear to-day !— hear rather, dropping 

down 
To the plain, how other woes creep on 

to me. 
And learn the consummation of my 

doom. 
Beseech you, nymphs, beseech you !— 

grieve for me 
Who now am grieving !— for grief walks 

the earth, 
And sits down at the foot of each by 

turns. 
Chorus. We hear the deep clash of 

thy words, 

Prometheus, and obey ! 
And I spring with a rapid foot away 
From the rushing car and the holy air. 

The track of birds — 
And I drop to the rugged ground and 

there 
Await the tale of thy despair 

Enter OcEANUS. 

Oceanus. I reach the bourne of my 
weary road. 
Where I may see and answer thee, 
Prometheus, in thine agony ! 
On the back of the quick-winged bird 
I glode. 

And I bridled him in 
With the will of a god. 
Behold thy sorrow aches in me. 

Constrained by the force of kin. 
Nay, though that tie were all imdone. 
For the life of none beneath the sun. 
Would 1 seek a larger benison 

Than I seek for thine 1 
And thou shalt learn my words are 
truth,— 



That no fair parlance of the mouth 

Grows falsely out of mine 1 
Now give me a deed to prove my 

faith, — 
For no faster friend is named in breath 

Than I, Oceanus, am thine. 

Prometheus. Ha ! what has brought 

thee ? Hast thou also come 
To look upon my woe ? How hast thou 

dared 
To leave the depths called after thee, 

the caves 
Self-hewn and self-roofed with sponta- 
neous rock. 
To visit Earth, the mother of my chain ? 
Hast come indeed to view my doom 

and mourn 
That 1 should sorrow thus? Gaze on, 

and see 
How I, the fast friend of your Zeus,-- 

how I 
The erector of the empire in his. hand, — 
Am bent beneath that hand in this 

despair ! 
Oceanus. Prometheus, I behold, — 

and I would fain 
Exhort thee, though already subtle 

enough, 
To a better wisdom. Titan, know thy- 
self, 
And take new softness to thy manners, 

since 
A new king rules the gods. If words 

like these. 
Harsh words and trenchant, thou wilt 

fling abroad, 
Zeus haply, though he sit so far and 

high. 
May hear thee do it ; and, so, this wrath 

of his 
Which now affects thee fiercely, shall 

appear 
A mere child's sport at vengeance! 

Wretched god. 
Rather dismiss the passion which thou 

hast. 
And seek a change from grief. Perhaps 

I seem 
To address thee with old saws and out 

worn sense, — 
Yet such a curse, PrometheiLs, surely 

waits 
On lips that speak too proudly ! — then, 

meantime, 



PROMETJIEUS BOUND. 



"5 



Art none the meeker, nor dost yield 

a jot 
To evil circumstance, preparing still 
To swell the account of grief, with other 

griefs 
Than what are borne 1 Beseech thee, 

use me then 
For counsel 1 Do not spurn against the 

pricks, — 
Seeing that who reigns, reigns by cruelty 
Instead of right. And now, 1 go from 

hence. 
And will endeavor if a power of mine 
Can break thy fetters through. For 

thee, — be calm. 
And smooth thy words from passion. 

Knowest thou not 
Of perfect knowledge, thou who know- 
est too much. 
That where the tongue wags, ruin never 

lags ? 
Prometheus. I gratulate thee who 

hast shared and dared 
All things with me, except their 

penalty ! 
Enough so 1 leave these thoughts ! It 

cannot be 
That thou shouldst move Him. He 

may not be moved ! 
And thou, beware of sorrow on this 

road. 
Oceanus. Ay ! ever wiser for an- 
other's use 
Than thine ! the event, and not the 

prophecy. 
Attests it to me. Yet where now I rush. 
Thy wisdom hath no power to drag me 

back ; 
Because I glory — glory, to go hence 
And win for thee deliverance from thy 

pangs. 
As a free gift from Zeus. 

Prometheus. Why there, again, 

I give thee gratulation and applause ! 
Thou lackest no good-will. But, as for 

deeds. 
Do nought ! 'twere all done vainly ! 

helping nought. 
Whatever thou wouldst do. Rather 

take rest. 
And keep thyself from evil. If I 

grieve, 
I do not therefore wish to multiply 
The griefs of others. Verily, not so ! 



For still my brother's doom dolh vex my 

soul, — 
My brother Atlas, standing in the west. 
Shouldering the column of the heaven 

and earth, 
A difficult burden ! I have also seen. 
And pitied as I saw, the earth-born one. 
The inhabitant of old Cilician caves. 
The great war-monster of the hundred 

heads, 
(All taken and bowed beneath the 

violent Hand,) 
Typhon the fierce, who did resist the 

gods. 
And, hissing slaughter from his dreadful 

jaws. 
Flash out ferocious glory frora his eyes. 
As if to storm the throne of Zeus 1 

Whereat, 
The sleepless arrow of Zeus flew straight 

at him, — 
The headlong bolt of thunder breathing 

flame. 
And struck him downward from his 

eminence 
Of exultation ! Through the very soul. 
It struck him, and his strength was 

withered up 
To ashes, thunder-blasted. Now, he lies 
A helpless trunk supinely, at full length 
Beside the strait of ocean, spurred into 
By roots of Etna, — high upon whose 

tops 
Hephaestus sits and strikes the flashing 

ore. 
From thence the rivers of fire shall burst 

away 
Hereafter, and devour with savage jaws 
The equal plains of fruitful Sicily ! 
Such passion he shall boil back in hot 

darts 
Of an insatiate fury and sough of flame. 
Fallen Typhon ; — howsoever struck and 

charred 
By Zeus's bolted thimder ! But for thee. 
Thou art not so unlearned as to need 
My teaching — let thy knowledge save 

thyself. 
/ quaff the full cup of a present doom, 
And wait till Zeus hath quenched his 

will in wrath. 
Oceanus. Prometheus, art thou ignor- 
ant of this, — 
That words do medicine anger ? 



PROMETHFMS BOUND. 



Prometheus. If the word 

With seasonable softness touch the soul, 
And, where the parts are ulcerous, sear 

them not 
By any rudeness. 

Oceatuis. What a noble aim 

To dare as nobly— is there harm in that ? 
Dost thou discern it ? Teach me. 

Prometheus. I discern 

Vain aspiration, — unresultive work. 
Oceanus. Then suffer me to bear the 
brunt of this! 
Since it is profitable that one who is wise 
Should seem not wise at all. 

Provietheus. And such would seem 
My very crime. 

Oceafius. In truth thine argument 
Sends me back home. 

Prometheus. Lest any lament for me 
Should cast thee down to hale. 

Oceanus. The hate of Him, 

Who sits a new king on the absolute 
throne? 
Prometheus. Beware of him, — lest 

thine heart grieve by him. 
Oceanus. Thy doom, Prometheus, 

be my teacher ! 
Prometheus. Go ! 

Depart— beware !— and keep the mind 
thou hast. 
Oceanus. Thy words drive after, as 
I rush before ! 
Lo ! my four-footed Bird sweeps smooth 

and wide 
The flats of air with balanced pinions, 

glad 
To bend his knee at home in the ocean- 
stall. {Exit Oceanus. 
Chorus, ist Strophe. 
I moan thy fate, I moan for thee, 

Prometheus ! From my eyes too ten- 
der, 
Drop after drop incessantly. 

The tears of my heart's pity render. 
My cheeks wet from their fountains 
free, — 
Because that Zeus, the stern and cold. 
Whose law is taken from his breast. 
Uplifts his sceptre manifest 
Over the gods of old. 

\si Antistrophe. 
All the land is moaning 
With a murmured plaint to-day ! 



All the mortal nations. 

Having habitations 
Near the holy Asia, 

Are a dirge entoning 
For thine honor and thy brother's. 
Once majestic beyond others 

In the old belief, — 
Now are groaning in the groaning 

Of thy deep- voiced grief. 

•zd Strophe. 
Mourn the maids inhabitant 

Of the Colchian land. 
Who with white, calm bosoms, stand 

In the battle's roar — 
Mourn the Scythian tribefi that haunt 
The verge of earth, Ma;otis' shore— 

■zd Antistrophe. 
Yea ! Arabia's battle crown, 
And dwellers in the beetling town 
Mount Caucasus sublimely nears, — 
An iron squadron, thundering down 
With the sharp-prowed spears. 

But one other before, have I seen to 
remain. 
By invincible pain 
Bound and vanc^uished, — one Titan 1 — 

'twas Atlas who bears. 
In a curse from the gods, by that strcnglli 
of his own 
Which he evermore wears. 
The weight of the heaven on hisshoid- 
der alone. 
While he sighs up the stars ! 
And the tides of the ocean wail bursting 
their bars, — 
Murmurs still the profound, — 
And black Hades roars up through the 

chasm of the ground, — 
And the fountains of pure-running riv- 
ers moan low 
In a pathos of woe. 

Prometheus. Beseech, you, think not 

I am silent thus 
Through pride or scorn ! I only gnaw 

my heart 
With meditation, seeing myself so 

wronged. 
For so — their honors to these new-made 

gods. 



rROMETHEUS BOUND. 



Wliat other gave hut I, — and dealt them 

out 
With distribution ? Ay— but here I am 

dumb ; 
For here, 1 should repeat your know- 

I-iJge to you. 
If I spake aught. List rather to the 

deeds 
I did for mortals, — how, being fools be- 
fore, 
I made them wise and true in aim of 

soul. 
And let me tell you — not as taunting 

men, 
Eut teaching you the intention of my 

gifts ; 
How, first beholding, they beheld in 

vain, 
And hearing, heard not, but like shapes 

in dreams. 
Mixed all things wildly down the tedious 

time. 
Nor knew to build a house against the 

sun 
With wicketed sides, nor any woodcraft 

knew. 
But lived, like silly ants, beneath the 

ground 
In hollow caves unsunned. There, came 

to them 
No stedfxst sign of winter, nor of spring 
Flower-perfumed, nor of summer full of 

fruit. 
But blindly and lawlessly they did all 

things. 
Until I taught them how the stars do 

rise 
And set in mystery ; and devised for 

them 
Number, the inducer of philosophies. 
The synthesis of Letters, and, beside. 
The artificer of all things. Memory, 
That sweet Muse-mother. I was first 

to yoke 
The servile beasts in couples, carrying 
An heirdom of man's burdens on their 

backs ! 
I joined the chariots, steeds, that love 

the bit 
They champ at — the chief pomp of gold- 
en ease. 
And none but 1, originated ships. 
The seaman's chariots, wandering on the 

brine 



With linen wings ! And I — oh, misera- 
ble !— 

Who did devise for mortals all these arts, 

Have no device left now to save mysell 

From the woe 1 suffer. 

Chorus. Most unseemly woo 

Thou sufferest and dost stagger from 
the sense. 

Bewildered ! Like a bad leech falling 
sick 

Thou art faint at soul, and canst not find 
the drugs 

Required to save thyself. 

Pro)iiethcHs. Harken the rest. 

And marvel further — what more arU 
and means 

I did invent, — this, greatest ! — if a man 

Fell sick, there was no cure, nor escu- 
lent 

Nor chrism nor liquid, but for lack of 
drugs 

Men pined and wasted, till I showed 
them all 

Those mixtures of emollient remedies 

Whereby they might be rescued from 
disease. 

I fixed the various rules of mantic art. 

Discerned the vision from the common 
dream. 

Instructed them in vocal auguries 

Hard to interpret, and defined as plain 

The wayside omens, — flights of crook- 
clawed birds, — 

Showed which are, by their nature, for- 
tunate. 

And which not so, and what the food of 
each. 

And what the hates, affections, social 
needs. 

Of all to one another, — taught what sir;n 

Of visceral lightness, coloured to a shade. 

May charm the genial gods, and what 
fair spots 

Commend the lung and liver. Burn- 
ing so 

The limbs encased In fat, and the long 
chine, 

I led my mortals oh to an art abstruse. 

And cleared their eyes to the image in 
the fire. 

Erst filmed in dark. Enough said now 
of this. 

For the other helps of man hid luider 
ground. 



ii8 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



Tlie iron and tlie brass, silver and gold, 
Can any dare aflirin he found them out 
JJefore me ? None, I know 1 Unless 

he choose 
To He in his vaunt. In one word learn 

tlie whole, — 
That all arts came to mortals from Pro- 
metheus. 
Chorus. Give mortals now no inex- 
pedient help, 
Neglecting thine own sorrow ! I have 

hope still 
To see thee, breaking from the fetter 

here. 
Stand up as strong as Zeus. 

Prometheus. This ends not thus. 

The oracular Fate ordains. I must be 

bowed 
By infinite woes and pangs, to escape 

this chain. 
Necessity is stronger than mine art. 
Chorus. Who holds the helm of that 

Necessity ? 
Prometheus. The threefold Fates 

and the unforgetting Furies. 
Chorus. Is Zeus less absolute than 

these are ? 
Promethctis. Yea, 

And therefore cannot fly what is or- 
dained. 
Chorus. What is ordained for Zeus, 

except to be a king forever ? 
Prometheus. 'Tis too early yet 

For thee to learn it : ask no more. 

Chorus. Perhaps 

Thy secret may be something holy ? 

Prometheus. Turn 

To another matter ! this, it is not time 
To speak abroad, but utterly to veil 
In silence. For by that same secret 

kept, 
I 'scape this chain's dishonor and its 
woe. 

Chorus, \st Strophe. 
Never, oh never, 
May Zeus, the all-giver. 
Wrestle down from his throne 
In that might of his own. 
To antagonize mine ! 
Nor let me delay 
As I bend on my way 
Toward the gods of the shrine, 



Where the altar is full 
Of the blood of the bull. 
Near the tossing brine 
Of Ocean my father. 
May no sin be sped in the word that ii 
said. 
But my vow to be rather 
Consummated, 
Nor evermore fail, nor evermore pine. 

xst Antistrophe. 
'Tis sweet to have 

Life lengthened out 
With hopes proved brave 

By the very doubt. 
Till the spirit enfold 
Those manifest joys which were fore- 
told ! 
But I thrill to behold 

Thee, victim doomed. 
By the countless cares 
And the drear despairs. 
Forever consumed. 

And all becaitse thou, who art fearless 
now 

Of Zeus above. 
Didst overflow for mankind below. 

With a free-souled, reverent love. 

Ah friend, behold and see ! 
What's all the beauty of humanity ? 

Can it be fair ? 
What's all the strength ? — is it strong ? 

And what hope can they bear. 
These dying livers — living one day 
long ? 
Ah seest thou not, my friend. 
How feeble and slow. 
And like a dream, doth go 
This poor blind manhood, drifted from 
its end ? 
And how no mortal wranglings can 
confuse 
The harmony of Zeits ? 

Prometheus, I have learnt these things 
From the sorrow in thy face ! 
Another song did fold its wings 
Upon my lips in other days. 
When round the bath and round the 

bed 
The hymeneal chant instead 



PROMETHEUS BOUND, 



I sang for thee, and smiled, — 
And thou didst lead, with gifts and 
vows, 

Hesione, my father's child. 
To be thy wedded spouse. 

lo enters. 
Jo. What land is this ? what people 
is here ? 
Lnd who is he that writhes, I sec. 

In the rock-hung chain ? 
Jow what is the crime that hath brought 

thee to pain ? 
Lnd what is the land — make answer 

free — 
Vhich I wander through, in my wrong 
and fear ? 
Ah ! ah ! ah me ! 
'he gad-fly stingeth to agony ! 
) Earth, keep off that phantasm pale 
)f earth-born Argus ! — ah ! — I quail 
When my soul descries 
"he herdsman with the myriad eyes 
V^hich seem, as he comes, one crafty 

eye ! 
Iraves hide him not, though he should 

die, 
ut he doggeth me in my misery 
rom the roots of death, on high — on 

high— 
.nd along the sands of the siding deep, 
.11 famine-worn, he follows me, 
Lud his waxen reed doth undersound 
The waters round, 
.nd giveth a measure that givelh sleep. 

Woe, woe, woe ! 
V^'here shall my weary course be 

done ? — 
i^hat wouldst thou with me, Saturn's 

son? 
ind in what have I sinned, that I should 

go 
'hus yoked to grief by thine hand for 

ever? 
Ah ! ah ! dost vex me so. 
That I madden and shiver, 
Stimg through with dread ? 
Flash the fire down, to burn me ! 
Heave the earth up, to cover me ! 
)r plunge me in the deep, with the salt 
waves over me. 
Where the sea-beasts may be fed ! 
O king, do not spurn me 



In my prayer ! 
For this wandering everlonger, ever- 
more. 
Hath overworn me, — 
And I know not on what shore 
I may rest from my despair. 
Chorus. Hearest thou what the ox- 
horned maiden saith ? 
Projnethciis. How could I choose 
but hearken what she saith. 
The frenzied maiden ? — Inachus's 

child ?— 
Who love-warms Zeus's heart, and now 

is lashed 
By Here's hate, along the unending 
ways ? 
Jo. Who taught thee to articulate 

that name, — 
My father's ? Speak to his child. 
By grief and shame defiled ! 
Who art thou, victim, thou — who dast 

acclaim 
Mine anguish in true words, on the wide 

air? 
And callest too by name, the curse that 
came 
From Here imaware. 
To waste and pierce me with the mad- 
ening goad. 
Ah — ah — I leap 
With the pang of the hungry — I bound 
on the road — 
I am driven by my doom — • 
I am overcome 
By the wrath of an enemy strong and 

deep! 
Are any of those who have tasted pain, 

Alas ! — as wretched as I ? 
Now tell me plain, doth aught remain 
For my soul to endure bene.uh the sky ? 
Is there any help to be holpen by ? 
If knowledge be in thee, let it be said — 

Cry aloud — cry 
To the wandering, woeful maid. 

FromethcHS. Whatever thou wouldst 
learn I will declare, — 
No riddle upon my lips, but such straight 

words, 
As friends should use to each other when 

they talk. 
Thou seest Prometheus, who gave mor- 
tals lire. 
Jo. O common Help of all mon, 
known of all. 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



O miserable Prometheus, — for what 

cause 
Dost thou endure thus ? 

Prometheus. I have done with wail 
For my own griefs — but lately — 

lo. Wilt thou not 

Vouchsafe the boon to me ? 

Prometheus. Say which thou wilt. 
For I vouchsafe all. 

lo. Speak then, and reveal 

Who shut thee in this chasm. 

Protnetheus. The will of Zeus, 

The hand of his Hepha;stus. 

lo. And what crime 

Dost expiate so ? 

Prometheus. I have told enough for 
thee. 
In so much only 

lo. Nay — but show besides 

The limit of my wandering, and the 

time 
Which yet is lacking to fulfil my grief. 
Prometheus. Why, not to know 
Were better than to know. 
For such as thou. 

lo. Beseech thee, blind me not 

To that which I must suffer. 

Prometheus. If I do 

The reason is not that I grudge the boon. 

lo. What reason, then, prevents thy 

speaking out ? 
Prometheus. No grudging! but a 

fear to break thine heart. 
lo. Less care for me, I pray thee ! 

Certainty, I count for advantage. 
Prometheus. Thou wilt have it 

so. 
And, therefore, I must speak. Now 
hear^ 

Chorus. Not yet ! 

Give half the guerdon my way. Let xis 

learn 
First, what the curse is that befel the 

maid, — 
Her own voice telling her own wasting 

woes ! 
The sequence of that anguish shall await 
The teaching of thy lips. 

Prometheus. It doth behove 

That thou, maid lo, shouldst vouchsafe 

to these 
The grace they pray ; the more, because 

they are called 



Thy father's sisters ; since to open out 
And mourn out grief where it is possible 
To draw a tear from the audience, is a 

work 
That pays its own price well. 

lo. I cannot choose 

But trust you, nymphs, and tell you all 1 

ye ask. 
In clear words — though I sob amid my 

speech 
In speaking of the storm-curse sent from 

Zeus, 
And of my beauty, from which height 

it took 
Its swoop on me, poor wretch ! left thus 

deformed. 
And monstrous to your eyes. For ever- 
more 
Around my virgin chamber, wandering ; 

went 
The nightly visions which entreated mc \ 
With syllabled smooth sweetness.. 

' Elei;sed maid. 
Why lengthen out thy maiden hours i 

when fate _| 

Permits the noblest spousal in the world ? \ 
When Zeus burns with the arrow of thy ' 

love. 
And fain would touch thy beauty. — 

Maiden, thou 
Despise not Zeus ! depart to Lernc'.s 

mead 
That's green around thy father's flocks ^ 

and stalls. 
Until the passion of the heavenly eye 
Be quenched in sight.' Such dreams 

did all night long 
Constrain me — me, imhappy ! — till I 

dared 
To tell my father how they trod the dark 
With visionary steps ; whereat he sent 
His frequent heralds to the Pythian 

fane. 
And also to Dodona, and inquired 
How best, by act or speech, to pleasff 

the gods. 
The same returning, brought back or:i' 

cles 
Of doubtful sense, indefinite response. 
Dark to interpret ; but at last therw 

came 
To Inachus an answer that was clear, — 
Thrown straight as any bolt, and si^oken 

out. 



ii 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



131 



So hard to behold. 
So cruel to bear. 

Piercing my soul with a double-edged 
sword 

Of a sliding cold 1 
Ah fate ! — ah me !— 
I shudder to see 

This wandering maid in her agony. 

Prometheus. Grief is too quick in 

thee, and fear too full ! 

Be patient till thou hast learnt the rest 1 

Chorus. Speak — teach I 

To those who arc sad already, it seema 

sweet. 
By clear foreknowledge to make perfect, 
pain. 
Prometheus, The boon ye asked me 
first was lightly won, — 
For first ye asked the story of this 

maid's grief 
As her own lips might tell it — now 

remains 
To list what other sorrows she so young 
Must bear from Here ! — Inachus's child, 
O thou ! — Drop down thy soul my 

weighty words, 
And measure out the landmarks which 

are set 
To end thy wandering. Toward the 

orient sun 
First turn thy face from mine, and jour- 
ney on 
Along the desert flats, till thou shalt 

come 
Where Scythia's shepherd peoples dwell 

aloft. 
Perched in wheeled wagons under 

woven roofs. 
And twang the rapid arrow past 'the 

bow — 
Approach them not ; but siding in thy 

course. 
The rugged shore-rocks resonant to the 

sea. 
Depart that country. On the left hand 

dwell 
The iron-workers, called the Chalybes, 
Of whom beware 1 for certes they are 

uncouth, 
And nowise bland to strangers. Reach- 
ing so 

^evermore for the wrong and the woe I The stream Hybristes, (well the scorjter 
and the fear, called), 



This— .'he should drive me from my 

home and land. 
And bid me wander to the extreme 

verge 
Of all the earth — or, if he willed it not. 
Should have a thunder with a fiery eye 
Leap straight from Zeus to burn up all 

his race 
To the last root of it.' By which Lox- 

ian word 
Subdued, he drove me forth, and shut 

me out. 
He loth, me loth, — ^but Zeus's violent bit 
Compelled him to the deed ! — when 

instantly 
My body and soul were changed and 

distraught. 
And, horned as ye see, and spurred 

along 
By the fanged insect, with a maniac 

leap 

I rushed on to Cerchnea's limpid stream 
And Lerne's fountain-water. There, 

the earth born, 
The herdsman Argus, most immitigable 
Of wrath, did find me out, and track 

me out 
With countless eyes, yet staring at my 

steps ! — 
And though an unexpected sudden 

doom 
Drew him from life — I, curse-tormented 

still, 
And driven from land to land before the 

scourge 
The gods hold o'er me. So, thou hast 

heard the past, 
And if a bitter future thou canst tell. 
Speak on ! I charge thee, do not flatter 

me 
Through pity, with false words I for, in 

my mind, 

deceiving works more shame than tor- 
turing doth. 

Chorus. 

Ah ! silence here I 
Nevermore, nevermore. 
Would I languish for 
The stranger's word 
To thrill mine ear ! — 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



Attempt no passage ; — it is hard to pass. 
Or ere thou come to Caucasus itself. 
The highest of mountains, — where the 

river leaps 
The precipice in his strength ! — thou 

must toil up 
Those mountain-tops that neighbor with 

the stars. 
And tread the south way, and draw 

near, at last. 
The Amazonian host that hateth man. 
Inhabitants of Themiscyra, close 
Upon Thermodon, where the sea's rough 

jaw 
Doth gnash at Salmydessa and provide 
A cruel host to seamen, and to ships 
A stepdame. They, with unreluctant 

hand. 
Shall lead thee on and on, till thou 

arrive 
Just where the ocean gates show narrow- 
est 
On the Cimmerian isthmus. Leaving 

which. 
Behoves thee swim with fortitude of 

soul 
The strait Masotis. Ay 1 and evermore 
That traverse shall be famous on men's 

lips. 
That strait, called Bosphorus, the horned 

one's road. 
So named because of thee, who so wilt 

pass 
From Europe's plain to Asia's continent. 
How think ye, nymphs ? the king of 

gods appears 
Impartial in ferocious deeds ? Behold 
The god desirous of this mortal's love 
Hath cursed her with these wanderings. 

Ah, fair child. 
Thou hast met a bitter groom for bridal 

troth ! 
For all thou yet hast heard, can only 

prove 
The incompleted prelude of thy doom. 
lo. Ah, ah ! 

Prometheus. Is't thy turn, now, to 
shriek and moan ? 
How wilt thou when thou hast heark- 
ened what remains ? 
Chorus. Besides the grief thou hast 

told, can aught remain ? 
Prometheus. A sea — of foredoomed 
evil worked to storm. 



lo. What boots my life, then ? why 
not cast myself 
Down headlong from this miserable 

rock, 
That, dashed against the flats, I may 

redeem 
My soul from sorrow ? Better once to 

die, 
Than day by day to suffer. 

Proinethcits. Verily, 

It would be hard for thee to bear my 

woe. 
For whom it is appointed not to die. 
Death frees from woe : but I before me 

see 
In all my far prevision, not a bound 
'i'o all I suffer, ere that Zeus shall fall 
From being a king. 

lo. And can it ever be 

That Zeus shall fall from empire ? 

Prometheus. Thou, methinks, 

Wouldst take some joy to see it. 

lo. Could I choose ; 

/, who endure such pangs, now, by that 
god? 
Prometheus. Learn from me, there- 
fore, that the event shall be. 
lo. By whom shall his miperial scep- 
tred hand 
Be emptied so ? 
Projuetheus, Himself shall spoil 

himself. 
Through his idiotic counsels. 

lo. How ? declare ; 

Unless the word bring evil. 

Prometheus. He shall wed — 

And in the marriage-bond be joined to 
grief. 
lo. A heavenly bride — or human ? 
Speak it out. 
If it be utterable. 

Prometheus. Why should I say 

which ? 
It ought not to be uttered, verily. 

Jo. Then 

It is his wife shall tear him from his 
throne ? 
Prornetheur, It is his wife shall bear 
a son to him, 
More mighty than the father. 

lo. From this doom 

Hath he no refuge ? 

Prometheus. None — or ere that 1, 
Ivoosed from these fetters — 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



I2J 



lo Yea — ^but who shall loose 

While Zeus is adverse ? 
Prometheus. One who is born of 
thee — 
[t is ordained so. 

lo. What is this thou sayest — 

\ son of mine shall liberate thee from 
woe? 
P?-ometheus. After ten generations, 
count three more, 
\nd find him in the third. 

lo. The oracle 

Remains obscure. 
Proinetheus. And search it not to 
learn 
Thine own griefs from it. 

Jo. Point me not to a good. 

To leave me straight bereaved, . 

Prometheus. I am prepared 

To grant thee one of two things. 

lo. But which two ? 

Jet them before me — grant me power to 

choose. 
Prometheus. I grant it — choose now I 

shall name aloud 
A'^hat griefs remain to wound thee, or 

what hand 
hall save me out of mine. 

Chortis. Vouchsafe, O god, 

Che one grace of the twain to her who 

prays. 
The next to me — and turn back neither 

prayer 

Dishonored by denial. To herself 
Recount the future wandering of her 

feet— 
Then point me to the looser of thy 

chain — 
because I yearn to know it. 

Protnetheus. Since ye will, 

3f absolute will, this knowledge, I will 

set 

>fo contrary against it, nor keep back 
\. word of all ye ask for. lo, first 
L'o thee I must relate thy wandering 

course 
'ar winding ; as I tell it, write it down 
n thy soul's book of memories. When 

thou hast past 
L'he refluent bound that parts two con- 
tinents, 

Track on the footsteps of the orient sun 
II his own fire — across tiie roar of seas, 



Fly till thou hast reached the Gorgonean 
flats 

Beside Cisthene — there the Phorcides, 

Three ancient maidens, live, with shape 
of swan. 

One tooth between them, and one com- 
mon eye. 

On whom the sun doth never look at all 

With all his rays, nor evermore the 
moon. 

When she looks through the night. 
Anear to whom 

Are the Gorgon sisters three, enclothed 
with wings. 

With twisted snakes for ringlets, man- 
abhorred. 

There is no mortal gazes in their face. 

And gazing can breathe on. I speak of 
such 

To guard thee from their horror. Ay I 
and list 

Another tale of a dreadful sight 1 be- 
ware 

The Griffins, those unbarking dogs of 
Zeus, 

Those sharp-mouthed dogs! — and the 
Arimaspian host 

Of one-eyed horsemen, habiting beside 

The river of Pluto that runs bright with 
gold. 

Approach them not, beseech thee. Pre- 
sently 

Thou'lt come to a distant land, a dusky 
tribe 

Of dwellers at the fountain of the Sun, 

Whence flows the river ./Ethiops !— 
wind along 

Its banks and turn off" at the cataracts. 

Just as the Nile pours from the Bybhne 
hills. 

His holy and sweet wave ! his course 
shall guide 

Thine own to that triangular Nile- 
ground 

Where, lo, is ordained for thee and thine 

A lengthened exile. Have I said, in 
this, 

Aught darkly or incompletely? — nov/ 
repeat 

The question, make the knowledge 
fuller ! Lo, 

I have more leisure than I covet, here. 
Chorus. If thou canst tell us aught 
that's left untold 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



Or loosely told of her most dreary flight, 
Declare it straight! but if thou hast 

uttered all, 
Grant us that latter grace for which we 

prayed. 
Remembering how we prayed it. 

Prometheus. She has heard 

The uttermost of her wandering. There 

it ends. 
But that she may be certain not to have 

heard 
All vainly, 1 will speak what she en- 
dured 
Ere coming hither, and invoke the past 
To prove my prescience true. And so 

to leave 
A multitude of words, and pass at once 
To the subject of thy course I — When 

thou hadst gone 
To those MolossJan plains which sweep 

around 
Dodona shouldering Heaven, whereby 

the fane 
Of Zeus Thesprotian keepeth oracle. 
And wonder, past belief, where oaks do 

wave 
Articulate adjurations — (ay, the same 
Saluted thee in no perplexed phrase. 
But clear with glory, noble wife of Zeus 
That shouldst be, there, some sweetness 

took thy sense !) 
Thou didst rush further onward, — stung 

along 
The ocean-shoi-e, — toward Rhea's 

mighty bay. 
And, tost back from it, was tost to it 

again 
In stormy evolution ! — and, know well. 
In coming time that hollow of the sea 
Shall bear the name Ionian, and present 
A monument of lo's passage through. 
Unto all mortals. Be these words the 

signs 
Of my soul's power to look beyond the 

veil 
Of visible things. The rest to you and 

her, 
I will declare in common audience, 

nymphs. 
Returning thither, where my speech 

brake off. 
There is a town Canobus, built upon 
The earth's fair margin, at the mouth of 

Nile, 



And on the mounu washed up by It !— » 

lo, there 
Shall Zeus give back to thee thy perfect 

mind, 
And only by the pressure and the touch 
Of a hand not terrible : and thou to 

Zeus 
Shalt bear a dusky son, who shall be 

called 
Thence, Epaphus, Touched 1 That son 

shall pluck the fruit 
Of all that land wide-watered by the 

flow 
Of Nile ; but after him, when counting 

out 
As far as the fifth full generation, then 
Full fifty maidens, a fair woman-race. 
Shall back to Argos turn reluctantly. 
To fly the proff'ered nuptials of their 

km. 
Their father's brothers. These being 

passion-struck. 
Like falcons bearing hard on flying 

doves. 
Shall follow, hunting at a quarry of love 
They should not hunt — till envious 

Heaven maintain 
A curse betwixt that beauty and their 

desire, 
And Greece receive them, to be over- 
come 
In murtherous woman-war, by fierce red 

hands 
Kept savage by the night. For every 

wife 
Shall slay a husband, dyeing deep in 

blood 
The sword of a double edge 1 \I wish 

indeed 
As fair a marriage-joy to all my foes !) 
One bride alone shall fail to smite t(» 

death 
The head upon her pillow touched with 

love. 
Made impotent of purpose, and im- 
pelled 
To choose the lesser evil — shame on her 

cheeks. 
The blood-guilt on ner hands. "Which 

bride shall bear ■ 
A royal race in Argos — tedious speech 
Were needed to relate particulars 
Of these things — 'tis enough that from 

her seed. 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



125 



Shall spring the strong He — famous with 

the bow. 
Whose arm shall break my fetters off I 

Behold, 
My mother Themis, that old Titaness, 
Delivered to me such an oracle ; 
But how and when, I should be long to 

speak. 
And thou, in hearing, wouldst not gain 

at all. 

lo. Eleleu, eleleu I 

How the spasm and the pain 
And the fire on the brain 
Strike, burning me through ! 
How the sting of the curse, all aflame 
as it flew. 
Pricks me onward again ! 
How my heart in its terror, is spuming 

my breast. 
And my eyes, like the wheels of a cha- 
riot, roll round, — 
I am whirled from my course, to the 

cast, to the west. 
In the whirlwind of frenzy all madly 

inwound — 
And my mouth is unbridled for anguish 

and hate. 
And my words beat in vain, in wild 
sto;-ms of unrest. 
On the sea of my desolate fate. 

Chorus. — Strophe. 
Oh { wise was he, oh, wise was he. 
Who first within his spirit knew 
And with his tongue declared it true. 
That love comes best that comes unto 

The equal of degree ! 
And that the poor and that the low 
Should seek no love from those above 
Whose souls are fluttered with the flow 
Of airs abont their golden height. 
Or proud because they see arow 
Ancestral crowns of light I 

Antistrophe. 
Oh ! never, never, may ye. Fates, 

Behold rae with your awful eyes 

Lift mine too fondly up the skies 
Where Zeus upon the purple waits ! — 

Nor let me step too near — too near — 
I'o any suitor, bright from heaven-— 

Because I see — because I fear 
This loveless maiden vexed and laden 



By this fell curse of Here, — driven 
On wanderings dread and drear 1 

Epodc. 
Nay, grant an equal troth instead 

Of nuptial troth to bind me by 1 — 
It will not hurt — I shall not dread 

To meet it in reply. 
But let not love from those above 
Revert and fix me, as I said. 

With that inevitable Eye ! 
I have no sword to fight that fight — 
I have no strength to tread that path— 
I know not if my nature hath 
The power to bear, — I cannot see, 
Whither, from Zeus's infinite, 
I have the power to flee. 

Prometheus. Yet Zeus, albeit most 
absolute of will 

Shall turn to meekness, — such a mar- 
riage-rite 

He holds in preparation, which anon 

Shall thrust him headlong from his 
gerent seat 

Adown the abysmal void, and so the 
curse 

His father Chronos muttered in his fall. 

As he fell from his ancient throne and 
cursed, 

Shall be accomplished wholly — no es- 
cape 

From all that ruin shall the filial Zeus 

Find granted to him from any of his 
gods. 

Unless I teach him. I, therefuge, know, 

And I, the means — Now, therefore, let 
him sit 

And brave the imminent doom, and fix 
his faith 

On his supernal noises, hurtling on 

With restless hand, the bolt that breathes 
out fire — 

For these things shall not help him — 
none of them — 

Nor hinder his perdition when he falls 

To shame, and lower than patience. — 
Such a foe 

He doth himself prepare against him- 
self, 

A wonder of imconquerablc Hate, 

An organiser of sublimer fire 

Than glares in lightnings, and of grander 
soimd 



ja6 



PROMETHEUS BOUND, 



Than aught the thunder rolls, — out- 
thundering it. 
With power to shatter in Poseidon's fist 
The trident spear,which, while it plagues 

the sea. 
Doth shake the shores around it. Ay, 

and Zeus, 
Precipitated thus, shall learn at length 
The difference betwixt rule and servi- 
tude. 
Chorus. Thou makest threats for 

Zeus of thy desires. 
Prometheus. I tell you all these 
things shall be fulfilled. 
Even so as I desire them, 

Chorus. Must we then 

Look out for one shall come to master 
Zeus ? 
Prometheus. These chains weigh 

lighter than his sorrows shall. 
Chorus. How art thou not afraid to 

utter such words ? 
Promethetis. What should / fear, 

who cannot die ? 
Chorus. But he 

Can visit thee with dreader woe than 
death's. 
Profnetheus. Why let him do it ! — I 
am here, prepared 
For all things and their pangs. 

Chorus. The wise are they 

Who reverence Adrastela. 

Prometheus. Reverence thou, 

Adore thou, flatter thou, whomever 

reigns. 
Whenever reigning — but for me, your 

Zeus 
Is less than nothing 1 Let him act and 

reign 
His brief hour out according to his 

will- 
He will not, therefore, rule the gods too 

long ! 
But lo I I see that courier-god of Zeus, 
That new-made menial of the new- 
crowned king — 
He doubtless comes to announce to us 
.something new. 

Hermes enters. 
Hermes. I speak to thee, the sophist, 
the talker down 



Of scorn by scorn, — the sinner against 
gods. 

The reverencer of men, — the thief of 
fire, — 

I speak to and adjure thee I Zeus re- 
quires 

Thy declaration of what marriage -rite 

Thus moves thy vaunt and shall hereaf- 
ter cause 

His. fa 11 from empire. Do not wrap thy 
speech 

\\\ riddles, but speak clearly 1 Never 
cast 

Ambiguous paths, Prometheus, for my 
feet— 

Since Zeus, thou may'st perceive, is 
scarcely won 

To mercy by such means. 

Pro/netheus. A speech well-mouthed 

In the utterance, and full minded in the 
sense. 

As doth befit a servant of the gods ! _ 

New gods, ye newly reign, and think 
forsooth 

Ye dwell in towers too high for any 
dart 

To carry a wound there ! Have I not 
stood by 

While two kings fell from thence ? and 
shall I not 

Behold the third, the same who rules 
you now. 

Fall, shamed to sudden ruin 1 — Do I 
seem 

To tremble and quail before your mod- 
em gods ? 

Far be It from me ! — For thyself depart. 

Re-tread thy steps In haste ! To all 
thou hast asked, 

I answer nothing. 
Hermes. Such a wind of pride 

Impelled thee of yore full sail upon 
these rocks. 
Prometheus. I would not barter — 
learn thou soothly that ! — 

My suffering for thy service ! I main- 
tain 

It Is a nobler thing to serve these rocks 

Than live a faithful slave to father 
Zeus — 

Thus upon scorners I retort their scorn. 
Herfnes. It seems that thou dost 
glory in thy despair. 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



187 



Prometheus. I, glory ? would my foes 

did glory so. 
And 1 stood by to see them !— naming 

whom 
Thou art not unremembered. 

Her7nes. Dost thou charge 

Me also with the blame of thy mis- 
chance ? 
Prometheus. I tell thee I loathe the 
universal gods, 
Who for the good I gave them renderea 

back 
The ill of their injustice. 

Hermes. Thou art mad — 

I hear thee raving. Titan, at the fever- 
height. 
Prometheus. If it be madness to 
abhor my foes, 
Maj' I be mad 1 

Hermes. If thou wert prosperous, 

Thou wouldst be unendurable. 

Prometheus. Alas ! 

Hermes. Zeus knows not that word. 
Prometheus. But maturing time 

Doth teach all things. 

Hermes. Howbeit, thou hast not 
learnt 
The wisdom yet, thou needest. 

Prometheus. If I had, 

I should not talk thus with a slave like 
thee. 
Hermes. No answer thou vouchsaf- 
est, 1 believe. 
To the great Sire's requirement. 

Projtietheus. Verily 

I owe him grateful service, — and should 
pay it. 
Hermes. Why dost thou mock me, 
Titan, as I stood 
A child before thy face. 

Prometheus. No child, forsooth, 

But yet more foolish than a foolish 

child. 
If thou expect that I should answer 

aught 
Thy Zeus can ask. No torture from his 

hand. 
Nor any machination in the world 
Shall force my utterance, ere he loose, 

himself, 
Ihese cankerous fetters from me ! For 

the rest. 
Let him now hurl his blanching light- 
nings down, 



And with his white-winged snows, and 

nuitterings deep 
Of subterranean thunders, mix all 

things ; 
Confound them in disorder! None of 

this 
Shall bend my sturdy will and make me 

speak 
The name of his dethroner who shall 

come. 
Hermes. Can this avail thee ? Look 

to it 1 
Profiietheus. Long ago 

It was looked forward to, — precounselled 

of. 
Hermes. Vain god, take righteous 

courage I — dare for once 
To apprehend and front thine agonies 
With a just prudence 1 

Prometheus. Vainly dost thou chafe 
My soul with exhortation, as yonder sea 
Goes beating on the rock. Oh ! think 

no more 
That I, fear-struck by Zeus to a woman's 

mind. 
Will supplicate him, loathed as he is 
With feminine upliftings of my hands. 
To break these chains ! Far from me be 

the thought ! 
Hermes. 1 have indeed, methinks, 

said much in vain, — 
For still thy heart, beneath my showers 

of prayers. 
Lies dry and hard ! — nay, leaps like a 

young horse 
Who bites against the new bit in his 

teeth. 
And tugs and struggles against the new- 
tried rein, — 
Still fiercest in the feeblest thing of all, 
Which sophism is, — since absolute will 

disjoined 
From perfect mind is worse than weak. 

Behold, 
Unless my words persuade thee, what a 

blast 
And whirlwind of inevitable woe 
Must sweep perSuasion through thee! 

For at first 
The Father will split up this jut of rock 
With the great thunder and the bolted 

flame. 
And hide thy body where a hinge of 

stone 



128 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



Shall catch it like an arm ! — and when 

thou hast passed 
A long black time within, thou shalt 

come out 
To front the sun, while Zeus's winged 

hound. 
The strong camiverous eagle, shall 

wheel down 
To meet thee, — self-called to a daily 

feast. 
And set his fierce beak in thee, and tear 

off 
The long rags of thy flesh, and batten 

deep 
Upon thy dusky liver ! Do not look 
For any end moreover to this curse, 
Or ere some god appear, to accept thy 

pangs 
On his own head vicarious, and descend 
With imreluctantstep the darks of hell 
And gloomy abysses around Tartarus ! 
Then ponder this ! — this threat is not a 

growth 
Of vain invention : it is spoken and 

meant ! 
King Zeus's mouth is impotent to lie. 
Consummating the utterance by the 

act- 
So, look to it, thou ! — take heed ! — and 

nevermore 
Forget good counsel, to indulge self-will I 
Chorus. Our Hermes suits his rea- 
sons to the times — 
At least I think so ! — since he bids thee 

drop 
Self-will for prudent counsel. Yield to 

him ! 
When the wise err, their wisdom makes 

their shame. 
Prometheus. Unto me the forcknow- 

cr, this mandate of power 
He cries, to reveal it. 
What's strange in my fate, if I suffer 
from hate 

At the hour that I feel it ? 
Let the locks of the lightning, all brist- 
ling and whitening. 

Flash, coiling mc round ! 
While the ether goes surging 'neath 
thunder and scourging 

Of wild winds imbound ! 
Let the blast of the firmament whirl 
from its place 

The earth rooted below. 



And the brine of the ocean in rapid 
emotion, 
Be it driven in the face 
Of the stars up in heaven, as they walk 

to and frol 
Let him hurl me anon, into Tartaru.s — 
on — 
To the blackest degree. 
With Necessity's vortices strangling me 

down ! 
But he cannot join death to a fate meant 
for 7tic ! 
Her7nes. Why the words that he 
speaks and the thoughts that he 
thinks. 
Are maniacal — add. 
If the B'ate who hath bound him, should 
loose not the links. 
He were utterly mad. 
Then depart ye who groan with him. 
Leaving to moan with him — 
Go in haste ! lest the roar of the thun- 
der an earing 
Should blast you to idiocy, living and 
hearing. 
Chorus. Change thy speech for an- 
other, thy thought for a new, 
If to move me and leach me, indeed 
be thy care ! 
For thy words .swerve so far from the 
loyal and true. 
That the thunder of Zeus seems more 
easy to bear. 
How 1 couldst teach me to venture such 
vileness ? 
Behold ! 
I choose, with this victim, this anguish 
foretold I 
I recoil from the traitor in hale and dis- 
dain, — 
And I know that the curse of the trea- 
son is worse 

Than the pang of the chain. 
Hermes. Then remember, O nymphs, 

what I tell you before. 
Nor, when pierced by the arrows that 
Ate will throw you. 
Cast blame on your fate and declare 
evermore 
That Zeus thrust you on anguish he 
did not foreshow you. 
Nay, verily, nay ! for ye perish anon 
For your deed — by your clToice ! — by 
no blindness of doubt. 



A LAMENT FOR ADONIS. 



No abruptness of doom 1 — but by mad- 
ness alone, 
In the great net of Ate, whence none 
conteth out. 

Ye are wound and undone ! 
Prometheus. Ay ! in act, now — in 
word, now, no more I 

Earth is rocking in space ! 
And the thunders crash up with a roar 
upon roar — 
And the eddying lightnings flash fires 
in my face. 
And the whirlwinds are whirling the 
dast round and round — 
And the blasts of the winds universal, 
leap free 
And blow each upon each, with a pas- 
sion of sound. 
And aether goes mingling in storm 
with the sea ! 
Such a curse on my head, in a manifest 
dread, 
from the hand of your Zeus has been 
hurtled along ! 
O my mother's fair glory! O, /Ether, 

enringing. 
All eyes, with the sweet common light 
of thy bringing. 
Dost thou see how I suffer this 
wrong ? 



A LAMENT FOR ADONIS. 

FROM BION. 



1 MOURN for Adonis — Adonis is dead 1 
Fair Adonis is dead, and the Loves 
are lamenting. 
Sleep, Cypris, no more on thy purple- 
strewed bed ! 
Arise, wretch stoled in black, — beat 
thy breast unrelenting. 
And shriek to the worlds, ' Fair Adonis 
is dead.' 



I mourn for Adonis — the Loves are la- 
menting. 
He lies on the hills, in his beauty and 
death,— 



The white tusk of a boar has transfixed 
his white thigh ; 
Cythcria grows mad at his thin gasp- 
ing breath. 
While the black blood drips down on the 
pale ivory. 
And his eye-balls lie quenched with 
the weight of his brows. 
The rose fades from his lips, and upon 
them just parted 
The kiss dies the goddess consents not 
to lose. 
Though the kiss of the Dead cannot 
make her glad-hearted — 
He knows not who kisses him dead in 
the dews. 



I mourn for Adonis — the Loves are la- 
menting. 
Deep, deep in the thigh, is Adonis's 
wound ; 
But a deeper, is Cypris's bosom pre^ 
senting — 
The youth lieth dead while his dogs 
howl around. 
And the nymphs weep aloud from the 
mists of the hill. 
And the poor Aphrodite, with tresses 
unbound. 
All dishevelled, unsandalled, shrieks 
mournful and shrill 
Through the dusk of the groves. The 
thorns tearing her feet. 
Gather up the red flower of her blood 
which is holy. 
Each footstep she takes ; and the val- 
leys repeat 
The sharp cry she utters, and draw it 
out slowly. 
She calls on her spouse, her Assyrian ; 
on him 
Her own youth ; while the dark blood 
spreads over his body — 
The chest taking hue from the gash 
in the limb. 
And the bosom once ivory, turning to 
ruddy. *■ 



Ah, ah, Cytheria 1 the Loves are la- 
menting : 
She lost her fair spouse, and so lost 
her fair smile — 



130 



A LAMENT FOR ADONIt 



When he lived she was fair by the whole 
world's consenting, 
Whose fairness is dead with him I woe 
worth the while ! 
All the mountains above and the oak- 
lands below 
Murmur, ah, ah Adonis 1 the streams 
overflow 
Aphrodite's deep wail, — river-fountains 
in pity- 
Weep soft in the hills ; and the flow- 
ers as they blow. 
Redden outward with sorrow ; while all 
hear her go 
With the song of her sadness, through 
mountain and city. 



Ah, ah, Cytheria ! Adonis is dead ! 
Fair Adonis is dead — Echo answers, 
Adonis ! 
Who weeps not for Cypris, when bow- 
ing her head. 
She stares at the wound where it 
gapes and astonies ? 
—When, ah, ah ! — she saw how the 
blood ran away 
And empurpled the thigh ; and, with 
wild hands flung out. 
Said with sobs, ' Stay, Adonis I unhappy 
one, stay. 
Let me feel thee once more — let me 
ring thee about 
With the clasp of my arms, and press 
kiss into kiss! 
Wait a little, Adonis, and kiss me 
again. 
For the last time, beloved ; and but so 
much of this 
That the kiss may learn life from the 
warmth of the strain ! 
—Till thy breath shall exude from thy 
soul to my mouth ; 
To my heart ; and, the love-charm I 
once more receiving. 
May drink thy love in it, and keep of a 
truth 
That one kiss in the place of Adonis 
the living. 
Thou fliest me, mournful one, fliest me 
far, 
My Adonis ; and seek est the Acheron 
portal, — 



To Hell's cruel King goest down with a 
scar. 
While I weep and live on like a 
wretched immortal, 
And follow no step ; — O Persephone, 
take him, 
My husband ! — thou'rt better and 
brighter than I 
So all beauty flows down to thee 1 / 
cannot make him 
Look up at my grief ; there's despair 
in my cry, 
Since I wail for Adonis, who died to me 
. . died to me . . 
— Then, I fear thee! — Art thou dead, 
my Adored ? 
Passion ends like a dream in the sleep 
that's denied to me. — 
Cypris is widowed ; the Loves seek 
their lord 
All the house through in vain ! Charm 
of cestus has ceased 
With thy clasp !— O too bold in the 
hunt, past preventing ; 
Ay, mad : thou so fair ... to have strife 
with a beast !' — 
Thus the Goddess wailed on — and the 
loves are lamenting. 



Ah, ah, Cytherea ! Adonis is dead. 
She wept tear after tear, with the blood 

which was shed ; 
And both turned into flowers for the 

earth's garden-close ; 
Her tears, to the wind-flower, — his blood 

to the rose. 



I mourn for Adonis — Adonis is dead. 
Weep no more in the woods, Cytherea, 
thy lover ! 
So, well ; make a place for his corse in 
thy bed. 
With the purples thou sleepcst in, un- 
der and over. 
He's fair though a corse — a fair corse . . 
like a sleeper — 
Lay him soft in the silks he had plea- 
sure to fold, 
When, beside thee at night, holy dreams 
deep and deeper 



BERTHA IN THE LANE. 



131 



Enclosed his young life on the couch 
made of gold ! 
Love him still, poor Adonis ! cast on 
him together 
The crowns and the flowers I since he 
died from the place, 
Why let all die with him — let the blos- 
soms go wither ; 
Rain myrtles and olive-buds down on 
his face : 
JRain the myrrh down, let all that is 
best fall apining, 
For the myrrh of his life from thy 
keeping is swept ! — 
— Pale he lay, thine Adonis, in purples 
reclining, — 
ITie Loves raised their voices around 
him and wept. 
They have shorn their bright curls oft" 

to cast on Adonis : 
One treads on his bow, — on his arrows, 

another, — 
One breaks up a well-feathered quiver ; 
and one is 
Bent low at a sandal, untying the 

strings ; 
And one carries the vases of gold from 
the springs. 
While one washes the wound ; and be- 
hind them a brother 
Fans down on the body sweet air 
with his wings. 



Cytherea herself, now, the Loves are 
lamenting. 
Each torch at the door Hymenseus 
blew out ; 
And the marriage-wreath dropping its 
leaves as repenting. 
No more ' Hymen, Hymen,' is chant- 
ed about. 
But the ai ai instead — ' ai alas ' is begun 
For Adonis, and then follows 'ai 
Hymenseus ! ' 
The Graces are weeping for Cinyris' son 
Sobbing low, each to each, * His fair 
eyes cannot see us ! ' — 
Their wail strikes more shrill than the 

sadder Dione's ; 
The Fates mourn aloud for Adonis, 
Adonis, 



Deep chanting ! he hears not a word 
that they say : 
He "Mould hear, but Persephone has 
him in keeping. 
— Cease moan, Cytherea — leave pomps 
for to-day. 
And weep new when a new yeai 
refits thee for weeping. 



P>ERTHA IN THE LANE. 

Put the broidery-frame away. 
For my sewing is all done ! 

The last thread is used to-day. 
And I need net join it on. 
Though the clock stands at the noon 
I am weary ! I have sewn. 
Sweet, for thee, a wedding-gown. 

Sister, help me to the bed. 

And stand near me. Dearest-sweet ! 

Do not shrink nor be afraid. 
Blushing with a sudden heat ! 
No one standeth in the street? — 
By God's love I go to meet. 
Love I thee with love complete. 

Lean thy face down ! drop it in 
These two hands, that I may hold 

'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin, 
Stroking back the curls of gold. 
'Tis a fair, fair face, in sooth — 
Larger eyes and redder mouth 
Than mine were in my first youth \ 

Thou art younger by seven years — 
Ah ! — so bashful at my gaze. 

That the lashes, hung with tears. 
Grow too heavj' to upraise ? 
I would wound thee by no touch 
Which thy shyness feels as such — 
Dost thou mind me. Dear, so much ? 

Have T not been t\igh ^ mother 
To thy sweetness — tell me. Dear? 

Have we not loved one another 
Tenderly, from year to year. 
Since our dying mother mild 
Said with accents undefiled, 
' Child, be mother to this child ! ' 



132 



BERTHA IN THE LANE. 



Mother, mother, up in heaven. 
Stand up on the jasper sea. 

And be witness I have given 
All the gifts required of me, — 
Hope that blessed me, bliss that 

crowned, 
Love, that left me with a wound. 
Life itself, that turneth round ! 

Mother, mother, thou art kind. 
Thou art standing in the room. 

In a molten glory shrined. 
That rays off into the gloom ! 
But thy cmile is bright and bleak 
Like cold waves — I cannot speak ; 
I sob in it, and grow weak. 

Ghostly mother, keep aloof 

One hour longer from my soul — 

For I still am thinking of 

Earth's warm-beating joy and dole : 
On my finger is a ring 
Which I still see glittering. 
When the night hides everything. 

Little sister, thou art pale ! 

Ah, I have a wandering brain — 
But I lose that fever-bale. 

And my thoughts grow calm again. 

Lean down closer — closer still ! 

I have words thine ear to fill, — 

And would kiss thee at my will. 

Dear, I heard thee in the spring. 
Thee and Robert — through the trees — 

When we all went gathering 
Boughs of May-bloom for the bees. 
Do not start so ! think instead 
How the sunshine overhead 
Seemed to trickle through the shade. 

What a day it was, that day ! 

Hills and vales did openly 
Seem to heave and throb away 

At the sight of the great sky. 

And the Silence, as it stood 

In the Glory's golden flood. 

Audibly did bud — andSud. 

Through the winding hedgerows green. 
How we wandered, I and you, — 

With the bowery tops shut in. 

And the gates that showed the view — 
How we talked there ! thrushes soft 



Sang our pauses out — or oft 
Bleatings took them, from the croft 

Till the pleasure grown too strong 
Left me muter evermore ; 

And, the winding road being long, 
I walked out of sight, before, 
And so, wrapt in musings fond. 
Issued (past the wayside pond) 
On the meadow-lands beyond. 

I sate down beneath the beech 
Which leans over to the lane. 

And the far sound of yoirt- speech 
Did not promise any pain ; 
And I blessed you full and free. 
With a smile stooped tenderly 
O'er the May-flowers on my knee. 

But the sound grew into word 

As the speakers drew more near — 

Sweet, forgive me that 1 heard 
What you wished me not to hear. 
Do not weep so — do not shake — 
Oh, — I heard thee. Bertha, make 
Good true answers for my sake. 

Yes, and he too ! let him stand 

In thy thoughts, untouched by blame. 

Could he help it, if my hand 

He had claimed with hasty claim ? 
That was wrong perhaps — but then 
Such things be — and will, again ! 
Women cannot judge for men. 

Had he seen thee when he swore 
He would love but me alone. 

Thou wert absent, — sent before 
To our kin in Sidmouth town. 
When he saw thee who art best 
Past compare, and loveliest. 
He but judged thee as the rest. 

Conld we blame him with grave words. 
Thou and I, Dear, if we might ? 

Thy brown eyes have looks like birds. 
Flying straightway to the light : 
Mine are older. — Hush ! — look out — 
Up the street ! Is none without ? 
How the poplar swings about ! 

And that hour — beneath the beech. 

When I listened in a dream. 
And he said, in his deep speech. 



BERTHA IN THE LANE. 



Tliat he owed me all esteem,— 
Each word swam in on my brain 
With a dim, dilating pain. 
Till it bui-st with that last stram — 

1 fell flooded with a Dark, 
In the silence of a swoon — 

When I rose, still cold and stark. 
There was night, — I saw the moon ; 
And the stars, each in its place, 
And the May-blooms on the grass. 
Seemed to wonder what I was. 

And T walked as if apart 

From myself when I could stand— 

And I pitied my own heart, 
As if 1 held it in my hand. 
Somewhat coldly, — with a sense 
Of fulfilled benevolence, 
And a ' Foor thing ' negligence. 

And I answered coldly too. 

When you met me at the door ; 

And £ only heard the dew 

Dripping from me to the floor : 
And the flowers I bade you see. 
Were too withered for the bee, — 
As my life, henceforth for me. 

Do not weep so — Dear — heart-warm ! 
It was best as it befell ! 

If I say he did me harm, 

I speak it wild, — I am not well. 
All his words were kind and good- 
He esteetned me ! Only blood 
Runs so faint in womanhood. 



Then I always was too grave, — 
Liked the saddest ballads sung, — 

With that look, besides, we have 
In our faces, who die young. 
I had died. Dear, all the same — 
Life's long, joyous, jostling game 
Is too loud for my meek shame. 

We are so unlike each other. 
Thou and I ; that none could guess 

We were children of one mother. 
Bat for mutual tenderness. 
Thou art rose-lined from the cold, 
And meant, verily, to hold 
Life's pure pleasures manifold. 



I am pale as crocus grows 

Close beside a rose-tree's root 1 

Whosoe'er would reach the rose. 
Treads the crocus underfoot — 
/, like May-bloom on thorn tree — 
Thou, like merry summer-bee ! 
Fit, that / be plucked for thee. 

Yet who plucks me ? — no one mourns- 
I have lived my season out. 

And now die of my own thorns 
Which I could not live without. 
Sweet, be merry ! How the light 
Comes and goes ! If it be night. 
Keep the candles in my sight. 

Are there footsteps at the door ? 
Look out quickly. Yea, or nay ? 

Some one might be waiting for 
Some last word that I might say. 
Nay ? So best ! — So angels would 
Stand off clear from deathly road. 
Not to cross the sight of God. 

Colder grow my hands and feet — 
When I wear the shroud I made. 

Let the folds lie straight and neat. 
And the rosemary be spread, 
That if any friend should come, 
(To see thee, sweet !) all the room 
May be lifted out of gloom. 

And, dear Bertha, let me keep 
On my hand this little ring. 

Which at nights, when others sleep, 
I can still see glittering. 
Let me wear it out of sight. 
In the grave, — where it will light 
All the Dark up, day and night. 

On that grave, drop not a tear ! 

Else, though fathom-deep the place. 
Through the woollen shroud I wear 

I shall feel it on my face. 

Rather smile there, blessed one. 

Thinking of me in the sun — 

Or forget me — smiling on I 

Art thou near m^ ? nearer ? so. 
Kiss me close upon the eyes. 

That the earthly light may go 
Sweetly as it used to rise. 
When I watched the morning-gray 
Strike, betwixt the hills, the way 
He was sure to come that day. 



134 



THE R UNA WA Y SLA VE. 



So, — no more vain words be said ! 
The hosannas nearer roll — 

Mother, sm-'le now on thy Dead, 
I am death-strong in my soul. 
Mystic Dove alit on cross, 
Guide the poor bird of the snows 
Through the snow-wind above loss ! 

fesiLs, Victim, comprehending 
Love's divine self-abnegation, 

Cleanse my love in self-spending. 
And absorb the poor libation ! 
Wind my thread of life up higher, 
Up, through angels' hands of lire ! — 
I aspire while 1 expire ! 



THAT DAY. 

I STAND by the river where both of us 

stood. 
And there is but one shadow to darken 

the flood ; 
And the path leading to it, where both 

used to pass. 
Has the step but of one, to take dew 

from the grass, — 

One forlorn since that day. 

The flowers of the margin are many to 

see. 
For none stoops at my bidding to pluck 

them for me ; 
The bird in the alder sings loudly and 

long. 
For my low sound of weeping disturbs 

not his song. 

As thy vow did that day 

I stand by the river — I think of the 

vow — 
Oh, calm as the place is, vow-breaker 

be thou ! 
I leave the flower growing — the bird, 

imreproved, — 
Would I trouble thee rather than ihcin, 

my beloved. 

And my lover tliat day ? 

Go I be sure of my love — by that trea- 
son forgiven ; 

Of my prayers — by the blessings they 
win thee from Heaven ; 



Of my grief — (guess the length ot the 

sword by the sheath's) 
By the silence of life, more pathetic 

than death's ! 

Go, — be Cicar of that day ! 



LIFE AND LOVE. 



Fast this life of mine was dying. 
Blind already and calm as death ; 

Snowflakes on her bosom lying 
Scarcely heaving with the breath. 



Love came by, and having known her 
In a dream of fabled lands, , 

Gently stooped, and laid upon her 
Mystic chrism of holy hands • 



Drew his smile across her folded 
Eyelids, as the swallow dips. 

Breathed as finely as the cold did. 
Through the locking of her lips. 



So, when Life looked npward, being 
Warmed and breathed on from above. 

What sight could she have for seeing, 
Evermore but only Love ? 



THE RUNAWAY SLAVE 

AT pilgrim's I'OINT. 



I STAND on the mark beside the shore 
Of the first white pilgrim's bended 
knee. 
Where exile turned to ancestor. 

And God was thanked for liberty. 
I have run through the night, my skin is 

as dark 
I bend my knee down on this mark . . 
I I look on the sky and the sea. 



THE R UNA WA ?' SLA VE. 



«35 



O pilgrim souLs, I speak to you ! 

i see you come out proud and slow 
From the land of the spirits pale as 
dew . . 
And round me and round me you go 1 
O pilgrims, I have gasped and run 
All night long from the whips of one 
Who in your name-s works sin and 
woe. 



And thiLs I thought that 1 would come 
And kneel here where ye knelt before, 

And feel your souls around me hum 
In imdertone to the ocean's roar ; 

And lift my black face, my black hand, 

Here, in your names, to curse this land 
Ye blessed in freedom's evermore. 



I am black, I am black ; 

And yet God made me, they say. 
But if he did so, smiling back 

He must have cast his work away 
Under the feet of his white creatures. 
With a look of scorn, — that the dusky 
features 

Might be trodden again to clay. 



And yet He ha; made dark things 

To be glad and merry as light. 
There's a little dark bird, sits and sings ; 
There's a dark stream ripples out of 
sight ; . 
And the dark frogs chant in the safe 

morass. 
And the sweetest stars are made to pass 
O'er the face of the darkest night. 



But we who are dark, we are dark ! 

Ah God, we have no stars ! 
About our souls in care and cark 

Our blackness shuts like prison-bars : 
The poor souls crouch so far behind. 
That never a comfort can they find 

By reaching through the prison-bars. 



Indeed we live beneath the sky, 

That great smooth Hand of God 
stretched out 



On all His children fatherly. 

To save them from the dread and 
doubt 
Which would be, if, from this low place. 
All opened straight up to His face 

Into the grand eternity. 



And still God's sunshine and His frost, 

They make us hot, they make us cold. 
And if we were not black and lost : 
And the beasts and birds, in wood and 
fold. 
Do fear and take us for very men ! 
Could the weep-poor-will or the cat of 
• the glen 
Look into my eyes and be bold ? 

IX. 

I am black, I am black ! — 

But, once I laughed in girlish glee ; 
For one of my color stood in the track 
Where the drivers drove, and looked 
at me — 
And tender and full was the look he 

gave : 
Could a slave look so at another 
slave ? — 
I look at the sky and the sea. 



And from that hour our spirits grew 
As free as if unsold, unbought: 

Oh, strong enough, since we were two. 
To conquer the world we thought ! 

The drivers drove us day by day ; 

We did not mind, we went one way 
And no better a freedom sought. 

XI. 

In the sunny ground between the canes. 

He said ' I love you ' as he passed : 
When the shingle-roof rang sharp with 
the rains, 
I heard how he vowed it'fast : 
While others shook he smiled in the hut 
As he carved me a bowl of the cocoa- 
nut 
Through the roar of the hurricanes. 



I sang his nanie instead of a song 
Over and over I sang his name- 



THE R UNA WA Y SLA VE. 



Upward and downward I drew it along 
My various notes ; the same, the 
same ! 
I sang it low, that the slave girls near 
Might never guess from aught they 
could hear. 
It was only a name — a name. 



I look on the sky and the sea — 

We were two to love, and two to 
pray,— 

Yes, two, O God, who cried to Thee, 
Though nothing didst Thou say. 

Coldly Thou sat'st behind the sun I 

And now I cry who am but one. 
Thou wilt speak to-day. — 



XIV. 

We were black, we were black ! 

We had no claim to love and bliss : 
A'^hat marvel, if each went to wrack ? 
They wrung my cold hands out of 
his,— 
They dragged him . . where? . . I 

crawled to touch 
His blood's mark in the dust ! . . not 
much. 
Ye pilgrim-souls, . . though plain as 

this ! 



Wrong followed by a deeper wrong ! 

Mere griePs too good for such as I. 
So the white men brought the shame ere 
long 

To strangle the sob of my agony. 
They would not leave me for my dull 
Wet eyes ! — it was too merciful . 

To let me weep pure tears and die. 



I am black, I am black ! 

I wore a child upon my breast . . 
An amulet that hung too slack. 

And, in my unrest, could not rest : 
Thus we went moaning, child and 

mother 
One to another, one to another, 

Until all ended for the best : 



XVII. 
For hark ! I will tell you low . . low . . 

I am black, you see, — 
And the babe who lay on my bosom so, 
Was far too white . too white for 
me ; 
As white as the ladies who scorned to 

pray 
Beside me at church but yesterday : 
Though my tears had washed a place 
for my knee. 



My own, own child ! I could not bear 
To look in his face, it was so white. 

I covered him up with a kerchief there ; 
I covered his face in close and tight ; 

And he moaned and struggled, as well 
might be. 

For the white child wanted his liberty — 
Ha, ha ! he wanted the master right. 



He moaned and beat with his head am! 
feet, 
'His little feet that never grew — 
He struck them out, as it was meet. 

Against my heart to break it through. 
I might have sung and made him mild — N 
But I dared not sing to the white-faced \ 
child ' 

The only song I knew. 



I pulled the kerchief very close : 

He could not see the sun, I swear 
More, then, alive, than now he does 
From between the roots of the man-, 

go . . . where ? 
I know where. Close ! a child and 
mother 
Do wrong to look at one another. 
When one is black and one is fair. 



Why, in that single glance x had 

Of my child's face, . . I tell you all, 
I saw a look that made me mad . . 
The master's look', that used to fall 
' On my soul like his lash . , or worse !- 

And so, to save it from my curse, 
' I twisted it round in my shawl. 



THE R UNA IV A \ ' SLA VE. 



xxn. 
And he moaned and trembled from foot 
to head. 
He shivered from head to foot ; 
Till, afcer a time, he lay mstead 

Too suddenly still and mute. 
I felt beiide a stiffening cold . . 
I dared to lift up just a fold, . . 

As in lifting a leaf of the mango-fruit. 

XXIII. 

But my fruit . . ha, ha ! — there had been 

(I laugh to think on't at this hour ! . .) 

Your fine white angels, who have seen 

Nearest the secret of God's power, . . 

And plucked my fruit to make them 

wine. 
And sucked the soul of that child of 
mine. 
As the humming-bird sucks the soul 
of the flower. 



Ha, ha, the trick of the angels white ! 

They freed the white child's spirit so. 
I said not a word, but, day and night, 

I carried the body to and fro ; 
And it lay on my heart like a stone . . 

as chill. 
— The sun may shine out as much as he 
will: 
I am cold, though it happened a 
month ago. 

XXV. 

From the white man's house, and the 
black man's hut, 

I carried the little body on. 
The forest's arms did round us shut. 

And silence through the trees did run : 
They asked no question as I went, — 
They stood too high for astonishment, — 

They could see God sit on his throne. 

XXVI. 

My little body, kerchiefed fast, 

I bore it on through the forest . . on : 

And when I felt it was tired at last, 
I scooped a hole beneath the moon. 

Through the forest-tops the angels far, 

With a white shape finger from every 
star. 
Did point and mock at what was done. 



Yet when it was all done aright, . . 
Earth, 'twixt me and my baby, 
strewed, . . 
All changed to black earth, . . nothing 
white, . . 
A dark child in the dark, — ensued 
Some comfort, and my heart grew 

young : 
I sate down smiling there and sung 
The song I learnt in my maidenhood. 



And thus we two were reconciled, 
The white child and black mother, 
thus : 

For, as I sang it soft and wild 
The same song, more melodious, 

Rose from the grave whereon 1 sate ! 

It was the dead child singing that, 
To join the souls of both of us. 



I look on the sea and the sky ! 

Where the pilgrims' ships first an- 
chored lay, 
The free sun rideth gloriously ; 

But the pilgrim -ghosts have slid away 
Through the earliest streaks of the morn. 
My face is black, but it glares with a 
scorn 
Which they dare not meet by day. 



Ah ! — in their 'stead, their hunter sons 1 
Ah, ah ! they are on me — they hunt 
in a ring — 
Keep off! I brave you all at once — 
I throw off your eyes like snakes that 
sting ! 
You have killed the black eagle at nest, 

I think : 
Did you never stand still in your tri- 
umph, and shrink 
From the stroke of her wounded 
wing ? •- 

XXXI. 

(Man, drop that stone you dared to 
lift !— ) 
I wish you who stand there five 
abreast, 



t38 



A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE. 



Ekich, for his own wife's joy and gift, 

A little corpse as safely at rest 
As mine in the mangoes ! — Yes, but she 
May keep live babies on her knee. 
And sing the song she liketh best. 

XXXII. 

I am not mad : I am black. 

I see you staring in my face — 
I know you staring, shrinking back — 

Ye are born of the Washington-race : 
And this land is the free America : 
And this mark on my wrist . . (I prove 
what I say) 
Ropes tied me up here to the flog- 
ging-place. 



You think I shrieked then? Not a 
sound ! 

I hung, as a gourd hangs in the sun. 
I only cursed them all around. 

As softly as I might have done 
My very own child ! — From these sands 
Up to the mountains, lift your hands, 

O slaves, and end what I begun ! 

XXXIV. 

Whips, curses ; those must answer those ! 

For in this Union, you have set 
Two kinds of men in adverse rows. 

Each loathing each : and all forget 
The seven wounds in Christ's body fair ; 
While He sees gaping everywhere 

Our countless wounds that pay no 
debt. 

XXXV. 

Our wounds are different. Your white 
men 
Are, after all, not gods indeed. 
Nor able to make Christs again 

Do good with bleeding. We who 
bleed 
(Stand off !) 7ve help not in our loss ! 
We are too heavy for our cross. 
And fall and crush you and your seed. 

XXXVI. 

I fall, I swoon ! I look at the sky : 

The clouds are breaking on my brain ; 
I am floated along as if I should die 



Of liberty's exquisite pain — 
In the name of the white child waiting 

for me 
In the death-dark where we may kiss 

and agree. 
White men, I leave you all curse-free 
In my broken heart's disdain ! 



A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLOR- 
ENCE. 



A. A. E. C. 
Born July, 1848. Diki> Novkmbku, Ik-19. 



Of English blood, of Tuscan birth, . 

What country should we give her ' 
Instead of any on the earth. 

The civic Heavens receive her. 



Ana here, among the English tombs. 
In Tuscan ground we lay her. 

While the blue Tuscan sky endomes 
Our English words of prayer. 



A little child ! — how long she lived, 
By months, not years, is reckoned : 

Born in one July, she survived 
Alone to see a second. 



Bright-featured, as the July Sun 
Her little face still played in. 

And splendours, with her birth begun, 
Had had no time for fading. 



So, Lily, from those July hours. 
No wonder we should call her : 

She looked such kinship to the flowrers. 
Was but a little taller. 



A Tuscan Lily, only white . . 

As Dante, in abhorrence 
Of red corruption, wished aright 

The lilies of his Florence. 



A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE. 



139 



We could not wish her whiter, . . Her 
Who perfumed with pure blossom 

I'he house ! — a lovely thing to wear 
Upon a mother's bosom I 



This July creature thought perhaps 
Our speech not worth assuming : 

She sate upon her parents' laps. 

And mimicked the gnat's humming ; 



. . Said ' Father,' ' Mother ! '—then left 
off; 

For tongues celestial, fitter. 
Her hair had grown just long enough 

To catch Heaven's jasper-glitter. 



Babes ! Love could always hear and see 
Behind the cloud that hid them : 

' Let little children come to me. 
And do not thou forbid them.' 



So, unforbidding we have met. 
And gently here have laid her ; 

Though winter is no time to get 

The flowers that should o'ersprcad 
her. 



We should bring pansies quick with 
spring, 

Rose, violet, daffodilly. 
And also, above everything. 

White lilies for our Lily. 

XIII. 

Nay, more than flowers, this grave 
exacts . . 

Glad, grateful attestations 
Of her sweet eyes and pretty acts. 

With calm renunciations. 



Her very mother with light feet 
Should leave the place too earthy, 

Saying, ' The angels have thee, sweet. 
Because we are not worthy.' 



But winter kills the orange-buds. 
The gardens in the frost are ; 

"And all the heart dissolves in floods. 
Remembering we have lost her ! 



Poor earth, poor heart ! — too weak, too 
weak. 

To miss the July shining ! 
Poor heart ! — what bitter words wc 

speak. 
When God speaks of resigning I 

XVII. 

Sustain this heart in us that faints. 
Thou God, the self-existent ! 

We catch up wild at parting saints. 
And feel thy Heaven too distant ! 



The wind that swept them out of sin, 
Has rufiled all our vesture : 

On the shut door that let them in. 
We beat with frantic gesture ; 



To us, us also — open straight ! 

The outer life is chilly — 
Are we too, like the earth to wait 

Till next year for our Lily ? 



— Oh, my own baby on my knees. 
My leaping, dimpled treasure. 

At every word I write like these. 

Clasped close, with stronger pressure ! 



Too well my own heart understands . 

At every word beats fuller . . . 
My little feet, my little hands. 

And hair of Lily's colour! 



— But God gives patience, Love learns 
strength, 

And Faith remembers promise ; 
And hope itself can smile at length 

On other hopes gone from us. 



I40 



A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE. 



Love, strong as Death, shall conquer 
Death, 

Though struggle, made more glorious : 
This mother stills her sobbing breath. 

Renouncing, yet victorious. 



Arms, empty of her child, she lifts, 

With spirit unbereaven — 
' God will not all take back His gifts 

My Lily's mine in Heaven ! 



Still mine, maternal rights serene 

Not given to another ! * 
The crystal bars shine faint between 

The souls of child and mother. 

XXVI. 

' Meanwhile,' the mother cries, ' con- 
tent ! 

Our love was well divided ; 
Its sweetness following where she went, 

Its anguish siayed where I did. 

xxvii. 

' Well done of God, to halve the lot. 
And give her all the sweetness ! 

To us the empty room and cot, — 
To her, the Heaven's completeness : 



To us, this grave — to her, the rows 
The mystic palm trees spring in : 



To us, the silence in the house, — 
To her, the choral singing ! 

XXIX. 

' For her to gladden m God's view, — • 
For us to hope and bear on ! 

Grow, Lily, in thy garden new. 
Beside the Rose of Sharon. 



' Grow fast in Heaven, .sweet Lily 
clipped. 

In love more calm than this is, — 
And may the angels dewy-lipped 

Remind thee of our kisses ! 



' While none shall tell thee of our tears. 
These human tears now falling ; 

.Till, after a few patient years. 
One home shall take us all in : 



xxxii. 

' Child, father, mother — who, left out ' 
Not mother, and nDl father ! — 

And when, their dyiri>; couch about, 
The natural mists sh \,\ gather, 

XXXIK. 

' Some smiling angel close shall stand 
In old Correggio's fajhion. 

And bear a LiLV in his hand. 
For death's annunciation.' 



TRANSLATIONS. 



SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 



I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had 

sung 
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished- 

for years. 
Who each one in a gracious hand 

appears 
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young : 
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, 
I saw in gradual vision through my 

tears. 
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy 

years. 
Those of my own life, who by turns had 

flung 
A shadow across me. Straightway I 

was 'ware. 
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did 

move 
Behind me, and drew me backward by 

the hair ; 
And a voice said in mastery while I 

strove, . . 
' Guess now who holds thee ?' — ' Death !' 

I said. But there. 
The silver answer rang . . ' Not Death, 

but Love.' 



Birr only three in all God's universe 
Have heard this word thou hast said : 

Himself, beside 
Thee speaking and me listening ! and 

replied 
One of us . . that was God ! . . and laid 

the curse 
So darkly on my eyelids as to amerce 
My sight from seeing thee, — that if I 

had died, 
The deathweights placed there, would 

have signified 
Less absolute exclusion. 'Nay is 

worse 
From God than from all others, O my 

friend ! 



Men could not part us with their worldly 
jars. 

Nor the seas change us, nor the tem- 
pests bend : 

Our hands would touch for all the 
mountain-bars : — 

And, heaven being rolled between us 
at the end. 

We should but vow the faster for the 
stars. 



Uniike arc we, unlike, O princely 

Heart! 
Unlike our uses and our desiinies. 
Our ministering two angels look sur- 
prise 
On one another, as they strike athwart 
Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink 

thee, art 
A guest for queens to social pageantries. 
With gazes from a hundred brighter 

eyes 
Than tears even can make mine, to ply 

thy part 
Of chief musician. What hast thou to 

do 
With looking from the lattice-lights at 

me, 
A poor, tired, wandering singer? . . 

singing through 
The dark, and leaning up a cypress 

tree ? 
The chrism is on thine head, — on mine, 

the dew, — 
And death must dig the level where 

these agree. 

IV. 

Thou hast thy- calling to some palace 

floor. 
Most gracious singer of high poems [ 

where 
The dancers will break footing from the 

ciire' 



142 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Of watching up thy pregnant lips for , Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart 



more. 
And dost thou lift this house's latch too 

poor 
For hand of thine ? and canst thou think 

and bear 
To let thy music drop here tmaware 
In folds of golden fulness at my door ? 
Look up and see the casement broken in, 
The bats and owlets builders in the roof! 
My cricket chirps against thy mandolin. 
Hush ! call no echo up in further proof 
Of desolation ! there's a voice within 
That weeps. . as thou must sing, . alone 

aloof. 



I LIFT my heavy heart up solemnly. 
As once Electra her sepulchral urn. 
And looking in thine eyes, 1 overturn 
The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see 
What a great heap of grief lay hid in 

me, 
And how the "-ed wild sparkles dimly 

burn 
Through the a^hen greyness. If thy 

foot in scorn 
Could tread them out to darkness 

utterly. 
It might be well perhaps. But if in- 
stead 
Thou wait beside me for the wind to 

blow 
The grey dust up, . . . those laurels on 

thine head, 
O My beloved, will not shield thee so. 
That none of all the fires shall scorch 

and shred 
The hair beneath. Stand farther off 

then ! Go. 



Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall 

stand 
Henceforward in thy shadow. Never- 
more 
Alone upon the threshold of my door 
Of individual life, I shall command 
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
Serenely in the sunshine as before. 
Without the sense of that which I for- 
bore, . . 
Thy touch upon t|ie palm. The widest 
land 



m mme 
With pulses that beat double. What I 

do 
And what I dream include thee, as the 

wine \ 

Mast taste of its own grapes. ! And when 

I sue 
God for myself. He hears that name of 

thine. 
And sees within my eyes, the tears of 

two. 



The face of all the world is changed, I 

think. 
Since first I heard the footsteps of thy 

soul 
Move still, oh, still, beside me ; as they 

stole 
Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink 
Of obvious death, where I who thought 

to sink 
Was caught up into love and tpught the 

whole 
Of life in a new rhythm.. The cup of 

dole 
God gave for baptism. ^ ?• « fain to drink. 
And praise its sweeti.ciA, sweet, with 

thee anear. 
The name of country, heaven, are 

changed away 
For where thou art or shalt be, there or 

here ; 
And this . . this lute und song . . loved 

yesterday, 
(The singing angels know) are only 

dear, 
Because thy name moves right in what 

they say. 



What can I give thee back, O liberal 
And princely giver, . . who has brought 

the gold 
And purple of thine heart, unstained, 

imtold. 
And laid them on the outside of the 

wall 
For such as I to take or leave withal. 
In unexpected largesse ? Am I cold. 
Ungrateful, that for these most mani- 

■ fold 
High gifts, I render nothing back at all ? 



TRANSLATIONS. 



143 



Not so. Not cold I — but very poor in- 
stead I 

Ask God who knows ! for frequent tears 
have run 

The colours from my life, and left so 
dead 

And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done 

To give the same as pillow to thy head. 

Go farther ! Let it serve to trample on. 



Can it be right to give what I can give ? 
To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears 
As salt as mine, and hear the sighing 

years 
Re-sighing on my lips renunciative 
Through those infrequent smiles which 

fail to live 
For all thy adjurations ? O my fears. 
That this can scarce be right ! We are 

not peers, 
So to be lovers ; and I own and grieve 
That givers of such gifts as mine are, 

must 
Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, 

alas ! 
I will not soil thy purple with my dust. 
Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice- 
glass, 
Nor give thee any love . . which were 

unjust. 
Beloved, I only love thee I let it pass. 



Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful in- 
deed 
And worthy of acceptation. Fire is 

bright. 
Let temple bum, or flax ! An equal 

light 
Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or 

weed. 
And love is fire : and when I say at 

need 
/ love thee . . mark ! . . / lm>e thee ! . . 

in thy sight 
I stand transfigured, glorified aright. 
With conscience of the new rays that 

proceed 
Out of my face toward tliinc There's 

nothing low 
In love, when love the lowest ! meanest 

creatures 



Who love God, God accepts while lov- 
ing so. 

And what lyeel, across the inferior fea- 
tures 

Of what I am, doth flash itself, and 
show 

How that great work of Love enhances 
Nature's. 



And therefore if to love can be desert, 
I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as pale 
As these you see, and trembling knees 

that fail 
To bear the burden of a heavy heart. 
This weary minstrel-life that once was 

girt 
To climb Aornvis, and can scarce avail 
To pipe now 'gainst the valley nightin- 
gale 
A melancholy music \ . . why advert 
To these things ? O Beloved, it is plain 
I am not of thy worth nor for thy place : 
And yet because I love thee, I obtain 
From that same love this vindicating 

grace. 
To live on still in love and yet in vam, . . 
To bless thee yet renounce thee to thy 
face. 



Indeed this very love which is my 

boast. 
And which, when rising up from breast 

to brow. 
Doth crown me with a ruby large enow 
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner 

cost, . . 
This love even, all my worth, to the 

uttermost, 
I should not love withal, unless that thou 
Hadst set me an example, shown me 

how. 
When first thine earnest eyes with mine 

were crossed. 
And love called love. And thus, I can- 
not speak 
Of love even, as a good thing of my 

own. 
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faijnt 

and weak. 
And placed it by thee on a golden 

throne. — 



144 



TRANSLATIONS. 



And that I love, (O soul, we must be 

meek !) 
Is by thee only, whom I Icve alone. 



And wilt thou have me fashion into 

speech 
The love I bear thee, finding words 

enough, 
And hold the torch out, while the winds 

are rough, 
Between our faces to cast light on 

each ?— 
I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach 
My hand to hold my spirit so far off 
From myself . . me . . that I should 

bring thee proof 
In words, of love hid in mc out of reach. 
Nay, let the silence of my womanhood 
Commend my woman-love to thy be- 
lief,— 
Seeing that I stand 'unwon, however 

wooed, 
And rend the garment of my life in 

brief. 
By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude, 
Lest one touch of this heart convey its 

grief. 

XIV. 

/ If thou must love me, let it he for 

nought 
Except for love's sake only. Do not 

say 
' I love her for her smile . . her look . . 

her way 
Of speaking gently, . . for a trick of 

thought 
That falls in well with mine, nnd certcs 

brought 
A sense of pleasant ease on such a 

day ' — 
For these things in themselves, Beloved, 

may 
Be changed, or change for thee, — and 

love so wrought. 
May he. unwrought so. Neither love 

me for 
'i'hine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks 

dry : 
A creature might forgot to weop, who 

bore 
rhy comfort long, .^nd lose thy love 

thereby. 



But love me for love's sake, that ever- 
more " 

Thou may'st love on through love's eter- 
nity. 

XV. 

Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I 

wear 
Too calm and sad a face in front of 

thine ; 
For we two look two ways, and cannot 

shine 
With the same sunlight on our brow 

and hair. 
On me thou lookest with no doubting 

care, 
As on a bee shut in a crystalline, — 
For sorrow hath shut me safe in love's 

divine, 
And to spread wing and fly in the outei 

air 
Were most impossible failure, if I strove 
To fail so. But I look on thee . . on 

thee . . 
Beholding, besides love, the end of love. 
Hearing oblivion beyond memory . . . 
As one who sits and gazes from above. 
Over the rivers to the bitter sea. 



And yet, because thou overcomest so. 
Because thou art more noble and like a 

king. 
Thou canst prevail against my fears and 

fling 
Thy purple round me, till my heart 

shall grow 
Too close against thine heart, henceforth 

to know 
How it shook when alone. Why, con- 
quering 
May prove as lordly and tomplete a 

thing 
In lifting upward as in crushing low : 
And as a vanquished soldier yields his 

sword 
To one who lifts him from the bloody 

earth, — 
Even so. Beloved, I at last record. 
Here ends my strife. If thott invite me 

forth, 
I rise above abasement at the word. 
Make thy love larger to enlarge my 

worth. 



TRAXSLA TfONS. 



My poet, thou canst touch on all the 

notes 

God set between His After and Before, 
And strike up and strike off the general 

roar 
Of the rushing worlds, a melody that 

floats 

In a serene air purely. Antidotes 
Of medicated music, answering for 
Mankind's forlornest uses, thou canst 

pour 
From thence into their ears. God's will 

devotes 
Thine to such ends and mine to wait on 

thine ! 
How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for 

most use ? 
A hope, to sing by gladly ? . . or a fine 
Sad memory, with thy songs to inter- 
fuse ? 
A shade, in which to sin:^ ... of palm 

or pine ? 
A grave, on which to rest from singing ? 

. . Choose. 



r NEVER gave a lock of hair away 

To a man. Dearest, except this to thee. 

Which now upon my fingers thought- 
fully 

I ring out to the full bro^wi length and 
say 

'Take it.' My day of youth went yes- 
terday ; 

My h^xv no longer bounds to my foot's 
glee. 

Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree. 

As girls do, any more. It only may 

Now shade on two pale cheeks, the 
mark of tears. 

Taught drooping from the head that 
hangs aside 

Through sorrow's trick. I thought the 
funeral shears 

Would take this first ; but Love is 
justified : 

Take it thou, . . finding pure, from all 
those years. 

The kiss my mother left here when she 
died. 



XIX. 

The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise ; 
I barter curl for curl upon that mart ; 
And from my poet's forehead to my 

heart. 
Receive this lock which outweighs ar- 
gosies, — 
As purply black, as erst to Pindar's eyes 
The dim purpureal tresses gloomed 

athwart 
The nine white Muse-brows. For this 

counterpart. 
The bay-crown's shade. Beloved, I 

surmise. 
Still lingers on thy curl, it is so black ! 
Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing 

breath, 
I tie the shadow safe from gliding back. 
And lay the gift where nothing hin- 

dereth. 
Here on my heart as on thy brow, to 

lack 
No natural heat till mine grows cold in 

death. 



Beloved, my Beloved, when I think 
That thou wast in the world a year ago. 
What time I sate alone here in the snow 
And saw no footprint, heard the silence 

sink 
No moment at thy voice, . . but link by 

link 
Went counting all my chains as if that so 
They never could fall off at any blow 
Struck by thy possible hand .... why, 

thus I drink 
Of life's great cup of wonder. Won- 
derful, 
Never to feel thee thrill the day or night 
With personal act or speech,— nor ever 

cull 
Some prescience of thee with the blos- 
soms white 
Thou sawest growing: ! Atheists are as 

dull. 
Who cannot guess God's presence out of 
sight. 



Sav over again and yet once over again 
That thou dost love me. Though the 
word repeated 



146 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Should seem 'a cuckoo-song,' as thou 

dost treat it. 
Remember never to the hill or plain. 
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo- 
strain. 
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green 

completed ! 
Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted 
By a doubtful spirit- voice, in that doubt's 

pain 
Cry . . speak once more . . thou lovest ! 

Who can fear 
Too many stars, though each in heaven 

shall roll- 
Too many flowers, though each shall 

crown the year? 
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me 

—toll 
The silver iterance ! — only minding, 

Dear, 
To love me also in silence, with thy soul. 



When our two souls stand up erect and 

strong. 
Face to face, drawing nigh and nigher. 
Until the lengthening wings break into 

fire 
At either curved point, — What bitter 

wrong 
Can the earth do to us, that we should 

not long 
Be here contented ? Think. In mount- 
ing higher. 
The angels would press on us, and aspire 
To drop some golden orb of perfect song 
Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay 
Rather on earth. Beloved, — where the 

unfit 
Contrarious moods of men recoil away 
And isolate pure spirits, and permit 
A place to stand and love in for a day. 
With darkness and the death-hour 

rounding it. 

xxm. 
Is it indeed so? If I Lay here dead, 
Would'st thou miss any life in losing 
mine, 
; And would the sun for thee more coldly 
1 shine, 

1 Because of grave-damps falling round 
I my head ? 



I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read 
Thy thought so in the letter. I am 

thine — 
But . . so much to thee ? Can I pour 

thy wine 
While my hands tremble? Then my 

soul, instead 
Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower 

range I 
Then, love me. Love I look on me . . 

breathe on me ! 
As brighter ladies do not count it strange, ■ 
For love, to give up acres and degree, 
I yield the grave for thy sake, and 

exchange 
My near sweet view of Heaven, for 

earth with thee! 



Let the world's sharpness like a clasping 

knife 
Shut in upon itself and do no harm 
In this close hand of Love, now soft and 

warm ; 
And let us hear no sound of human strife 
After the click of the shutting. Life to 

life— 
I lean upon thee. Dear, without alarm. 
And feel as safe as guarded by a charm. 
Against the stab of worldlings v/ho if rife 
Are weak to injure. Very whitely still 
The lilies of our lives may reassure 
Their blossoms from their roots ! acces- 
sible 
Alone to heavenly dews that drop not 

fewer ; 
Growing straight, out of man's reach, on 

the hill. 
God only, who made us rich, can make 

us poor. 

XXV. 
A HEAVY heart. Beloved, have I borne 
From year to year until I saw thy face. 
And sorrow after sorrow took the place 
Of all those natural joys as lightly worn 
As the stringed pearls . . each lifted in 

its turn 
By a beating heart at dance-time. Hopes 

apace 
Were changed to long despairs, . . till 

God's own grace 
Could scarcely lift above the world 

forlorn 



TRAiVSLATIONS. 



'47 



My heavy heart. Then ihoii didst bid 

me bring 
And let it drop adown thy calmly great 
Deep being ! Fast it sinketh, as a thing 
Which its own nature doth precipitate, 
While thine doth close above it medi- 
ating 
Betwixt the stars and the unaccom- 
plished fate. 

XXVI. 

I LIVED with visions for my company 

Instead of men and women, years ago. 

And found them gentle mates, nor 
thought to know 

A sweeter music than they played to 
me. 

But soon their trailing purple was not 
free 

Of this world's dust, — their lutes did 
silent grow. 

And I myself grew faint and blind be- 
low 

Their vanishing eyes. Then thou didst 
come . . to be. 

Beloved, what they seetned. Their 
shining fronts. 

Their songs, their splendours . . (better, 
yet the same, 

As water-river hallowed into fonts . . ) 

Met in thee, and from out thee over- 
came 

My soul with satisfaction of all wants — 

Because God's gifts put man's best 
dreams to shame. 

xxvii. 
My own Beloved, who hast lifted me 
From this drear flat of earth where I was 

thrown. 
And in betwixt the languid ringlets, 

blown 
A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully 
Shines out again, as all the angels see. 
Before thy saving kiss ! My own, my 

own. 
Who earnest to me when the world was 

gone. 
And I who only looked for God, found 

thee ! 
I find thee : I am safe, and strong, and 

glad. 
As one who stands in dewless asphodel 



Looks backward on the ledioas time he 
had 

In the upper life . . so I, v/ith bosom- 
swell, 

Make witness here between the good 
and bad. 

That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves 
as well. 

XXVIII. 

My letters all dead paper, . . mute and 
white ! — 

And yet they seem alive and quiver- 
ing 

Against my tremulous hands which 
loose the string 

And let them drop down on my knee to- 

This said, . . He wished to have me in 

his sight 
Once, as a friend : this fixed a day in 

spring 
To come and touch my hand ... a sim- 
ple thing. 
Yet I wept for it ! — this, , . . the paper's 

light . , 
Said, Dear, I love thee : and I sank and 

quailed 
As if God's future thundered on my 

past ; 
This said / am thine — and so its ink has 

paled 
With lying at my heart that beat too 

fast : 
And this . . . O Love, thy words have 

ill availed. 
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last I 



I THINK of thee ! — my thoughts do twine 
and bud 

About thee, as wild vines about a tree. 

Put out broad leaves, and soon there's 
nought to see 

Exaept the straggling green which hides 
the wood. 

Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood 

I will not have my thoughts instead of 
thee 

Who art dearer, better ! Rather in- 
stantly 

Renew thy presence ! As a strong tree 
should 



148 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all 

bare. 
And let these bands of greenery which 

insphere thee. 
Drop heavily down, . . burst, shattered, 

everywhere ! 
Because, in this deep joy to see and hear 

thee 
And breathe within thy shadow a new 

air, 
I do not think of thee — I am too near 

thee. 



I SEE thy image through my tears to- 
night. 
And yet to-day I saw thee smiling. 

How 
Refer the cause ? — Beloved, is it thou 
Or I ? Who makes me sad ? The 

acolyte 
Amid the chanted joy and thankful rite. 
May so fall flat with pale insensate brow. 
On the altar-stair. I hear thy voice 

and vow 
Perplexed, uncertain, since thou'rt out 

of sight, 
As he, in his swooning ears, the choir's 

amen ! 
Beloved, dost thou love ? or did I see all 
The glory as I dreamed, and fainted 

when 
Too vehement light dilated my ideal 
For my soul's e/es? Will that light 

come again. 
As now these tears come . . . falling hot 

and real 1 

XXXI. 

Thou comest! all is said without a 

word. 
I sit beneath thy looks, as children do 
In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble 

through 
Their happy eyelids from an imaverred 
Yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I 

erred 
In that last doubt ! and yet I cannot rue 
The sin most, but the occasion . . . that 

we two 
Should for a moment stand unminlstered 
By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near 

and close. 



Thou dovelike help! and, when my I 
fears would rise. 

With thy broad heart serenely interpose ! 

Brood down with thy divine sufficien- 
cies 

These thoughts which tremble when ; 
bereft of those. 

Like callow birds left desert to the skies. 

XXXII. 

The first time that the sun rose on thine . 

oath 
To love me, I looked forward to the. 

moon 
To slacken all those bonds which seemed 1 

too soon 
And quickly tied to make a lasting; 

troth. 
Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may 

quickly loathe ; 
And, looking on myself, I seemed not t 

one 
For such man's love ! — more like an out tj 

of tune I 

Worn viol, a good singer would be v. 

wroth I 

To spoil his song with, and which, , 

snatched in haste. 
Is laid down at the first ill-sounding ; 

note. 
I did not wrong myself so, but I placed 
A wrong on thee. For r-ifect strains 

may float 
'Neath master-hands^ from instruments 

defaced,^ 
And great souls, at one stroke, may do ' 

and doat. 

XXXIII. 

'Yes, call me by my pet-name ! let n^ 
hear 

The name I used to run at, when a child 

From innocent play, and leave the cow 
slips piled. 

To glance up in some face that prov<: 
me dear 

With the look of its eyes. I miss tl it- 
clear 

Fond voices, which, being drawn an.' 
reconciled 

Into the music of Heaven's undefilcd, 

Call me no longer. Silence on the bit r . 

While / call God . . call God !— So ki 
thy mouth 



TRANSLATIONS, 



149 



L; heir to those who are now exan! 

mate : 
(".athcr the north flowers to complc • 

the south, 
And catch the early love up in the lab ' 
Yes, call me by that name, — and 1, m 

truth. 
With the same heart, will answer ami 

not wait. 

' XXXIV. 

With the same heart, I said, I'll answer 

thee 
As those, when thou shalt call me by 

my name — 
Lo, the vain promise ! Is the same, the 

same. 
Perplexed and ruffled by life's strategy ? 
When called before, I told how hastily 
I dropped my flowers, or brake off" from 

a game. 
To run and answer with the smile that 

came 
At play last moment, and went on with 

me 
Through my obedience. When I answer 

now, 
I drop a grave thought ; — break from 

solitude : — 
Yet still my heart goes to thee . . . pon- 
der how . . 
Not as to a single good but all my good ! 
Lay thy hand on it, best one, and allow 
That no child's foot could run fast as 

this blood. 

XXXV. 

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange 
And be all to me ? Shall I never miss 
Home-talk and blessing, and the com- 
mon kiss 
That comes to each in turn, nor count it 

strange. 
When I look up to drop on a new range 
Of walls and floors . . another home 

than this? 
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me 

which is 
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know 

change ? 
That's hardest ! If to conquer love, has 

tried. 
To conquer grief tries more ... as all 

things prove, 



For grief indeed is love and grief be- 
side. 

Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to 
love — 

Yet love me — wilt thou? Open thin« 
heart wide. 

And fold within, the wet wings of thy 
dove. 

XXXVI. 
When we first met and loved, I did not 

build 
Upon the event with marble. Could it 

mean 
To last, a love set pendulous between 
Sorrow and sorrow ? Nay, I rather 

thrilled. 
Distrusting every light that seemed to 

gild 
The onward path, and feared to over- 
lean 
A finger even. And though I have 

grown serene 
And strong since then, I think that God 

has willed 
A still renewable fear . . O love, O 

troth . . 
Lest these enclasped hands should nevei- 

hold. 
This mutual kiss drop down between us 

both 
As an unowned thing, once the lips being 

cold. 
And Love be false ! if he, to keep one 

oath, 
Must lose one joy by his life's star fore- 
told. 

XXXVII. 

Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should 
make 

Of all that strong divineness which I 
know 

For thine and thee, an image only so 

Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and 
break. 

It is that distant years which did not 
take *■ 

Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow. 

Have forced my swimming brain to un- 
dergo 

Their doubt and dread, and blindly to 
forsake 

Thy purity of likeness, and distort 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Thy worthiest love to a worthless coun- i The patient angel waiting for his place 

terfeit. ' '"-- " ' 

As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port. 
His guardian sea-god to commemorate, 



Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills 
a-snort. 

And vibrant tail, within the temple- 
gate. 

XXXVIII. 

First time he kissed me, he but only 

kissed 
The fingers of this hand wherewith I 

write. 
And ever since it grew more clean and 

white, ... 
Slow to world-greetings . . quick with 

its ' Oh, list,' 
When the angels speak. A ring of 

amethyst 
I could not wear here plainer to my 

sight. 
Than that first kiss. The second passed 

in height 
The first, and sought the forehead, and 

half missed. 
Half falling on the hair. O beyond 

meed ! 
That was the chrism of love with love's 

own crown. 
With sanctifying sweetness, did pre- 
cede. 
The third upon my lips was folded down 
In perfect, purple state ! since when, 

indeed, 
I have been proud and said, ' My Love, 

my own.' 

XXXIX. 

Pecause thou hast the power and own'st 

the grace 
To look through and behind this mask 

of me, 
(Against which years have beat thus 

blanching] y 
With their rains!) and beheld my soul's 

true face. 
The dim and dreary witness of life's 

race : — 
Because thou hast the faith and love to 

see. 
Through that same soul's distracting 

lethargy. 



In the new Heavens : because nor sin 

nor woe, 
Nor God's infliction, nor death's neigh- 



borhood. 
Nor all which others viewing, turn to 

go, . . 
Nor all which makes me tired of all, 

self-viewed, . . 
Nothing repels thee, . . Dearest, teach 

me so 
To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, 

good ! 



Oh, yes ! they love through all this 
world of ours I 

I will not gainsay love, called love for- 
sooth. 

I have heard love talked in my early 
youth. 

And since, not so long back but that the 
flowers 

Then gathered, smell still. Mussul- 
mans and Giaours 

Throw kerchiefs at a smile, and have no 
ruth 

For any weeping. Polypheme's white 
tooth 

Slips on the nut, if after frequent show- 
ers 

T'he shell is oversmooth ; and not so . 
much 

Will turn the thing called love, aside to 
hate. 

Or else to oblivion. But thou art not 
such 

A lover, my Beloved ! thou canst wait 

Through sorrow and sickness, to bring 
souls to touch. 

And think it soon when others cry ' Too 
late.' 



I THANK all who have loved me in their 

hearts. 
With thanks and love from mine. Deep 

thanks to all 
Who paused a little near the prison-wall. 
To hear my music in its louder parts. 
Ere they went onward, each one to the 

mart's 
Or temple's occupations, beyond all. 



TRANSLATIONS. 



But thou, who in my voice's sink and 
fall, 

When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's 

Own instrument didst drop down at thy 
foot. 

To hearken what I said between my 
tears, . . 

Instruct me how to thank thee ! — Oh, to 
shoot 

My soul's full meaning into future years. 

That tkey should lend it utterance, and 
salute 

Love that endures I with Life that dis- 
appears ! 



How do I love thee? Let me count 

the ways. 
I love thee to the depth and breadth 

and height 
My soul can reach, when feeling out of 

sight 
For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace. 
I love thee to the level of everyday's 
Most quiet need, by sim and candlelight. 
I love thee freely, as men strive for 

Right; 
I love thee purely, as they turn from 

Praise ; 
I love thee with the passion put to use 
In my old griefs, and with my child- 
hood's faith ; 
T love thee with a love I seemed to lose 
With my lost saints, — I love thee with 

the breath, 
Smiles, tears, of all my life ! — and, if 

God choose, 
I shall but love thee better after death. 



Beloved, thou hast brought me many 

flowers 
Plucked in the garden, all the summer 

through 
And winter, and it seemed as if they 

grew 
In this close room, nor missed the sun 

and showers. 
So, in the like name of that love of ours. 
Take back these thoughts which here 

unfolded too. 



And which on warm and cold days I 

withdrew 
From my heart's gi-ound. Indeed, those 

beds and bowers 
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue. 
And wait thy weeding : yet here's 

eglantine. 
Here's ivy ! — take them, as I used to do 
Thy flowers, and keep them where they 

shall not pine ; 
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours 

true. 
And tell thy soul, their roots are left in 

mine. 



My future luill not copy fair my past. 
I wrote that once ; and thinking at my 

side 
My ministering life-angel justified 
The word by his appealing look upcast 
To the white throne of God, I turned at 

last. 
And there, instead, saw thee ; not un- 

allied 
To angels in thy soul ! Then I, long 

tried 
By natural ills, received the comfort fast. 
While budding at thy sight, my pilgrim's 

staff 
Gave out green leaves with morning 

dews impearled. 
— I seek no copy now of life's first half ! 
Leave here the pages with long musing 

curled. 
And write me new my future's epigraph. 
New angel mine, unhoped for in the 

world ! 



PARAPHRASES ON HEINE. 

ROMK, 1860. 



Out of my own great woe 

I make my little songs. 

Which rustle their feathers in throngs 

And beat on her heart even so. 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



They found their way, for their part. 
Ye come again and complain. 
Complain, and are not fain 
To say what they saw in her heart. 



Art thou indeed so adverse ? 
Art thou so changed indeed ? 
Against the woman who wrongs me 
I cry to the world in my need. 



O recreant lips unthankful. 

How could ye speak evil, say, 

Of the man who so well has kissed you 

On many a fortunate day ? 



in. 



My child, we were two children. 
Small, merry by childhood's law ; 
We used to crawl to the hen-house. 
And hide ourselves in the straw. 



We crowed like cocks, and whenever 
The passers near ils drew — 
Cock-a-doodle ! they thought 
' Twas a real cock that crew. 



The boxes about our courtyard 
We carpeted to our mind. 
And lived there both together — 
Kept house in a noble kind. 



The neighbor's old cat often 
Came to pay us a visit ; 



We made her a bow and curtsey. 
Each with a compliment in it. 



After her health we asked. 
Our care and regard to evince — 
(We have made the very same speeches 
To many an old cat since). 



We also sate and wisely 
Discoursed, as old folks do. 
Complaining how all went better 
In those good times we knew, — 



How love and truth and believing 
Had left the world to itself. 
And how so dear was the coflfee, 
And how so rare was the pelf. 



The children's games are over. 

The rest is over with youth — 

The world, the good games, the good 

times. 
The belief, and the love, and the truth. 



IV. 



Thou lovest me not, thou lovest me not ! 

'Tis scarcely worth a sigh : 
Let me look in thy face, and no king in 
his place 

Is a gladder man than I. 



Thou hatest me well, thou hatest me 
well— 

Thy little red mouth has told : 
Let it reach me a kiss, and, however it is. 

My child, I am well consoled. 



TRANSLATIONS. 



153 



Mt own sweet Love, if thou in the 
grave, 
The darksome grave, wilt be. 
Then will I go down by the side, and 
crave 
Love-room for thee and me. 



I kiss and caress and press thee wild. 
Thou still, thou cold, thou white ! 

I wail, I tremble, and weeping mild. 
Turn to a corpse at the right. 



The Dead stand up, the midnight calls 
They dance in airy swarms — 

We two keep still where the grave- 
shade falls. 
And I lie on in thine arms. 



The Dead stand up, the Judgment-day 

Bids such to weal or woe — 
But nought shall trouble us where we 
stay 

Embraced and embracing below. 



VI. 



The years they come and go. 
The races drop in the grave. 
Yet never the love doth so. 
Which in my heart I have. 



Could I see thee but once, one day 
And sink down so on my knee. 
And die in thy sight while I say, 
* Lady, I love but thee ! ' 



Thksk Tran.'slationfl were only Intended, 
many years ago, to acconipany .-xnd explain 
certain Kngravingn after anoiout Gem^!, in the 
projected worlc of a friend, by wliose kindness 
tliey are now recovered ; bnt as two of tlie 
original series ^the " Adonis:" of Bion, and 
" Soni? to tlie Rose," from Achilles Tatiusi had 
already been inclnded in these poems, it is pre- 
sumed that the remainder may not improperly 
appear. A siaj^le recent version is added. 



PARAPHRASE ON THEOCRI- 
TUS. 

THE CYCLOPS. 
(Idyl XL) 

And so an easier life our Cyclops drew. 
The ancient Polyphemus, who in 
youth 
Loved Galatea, while the manhood grew 
Adown his cheeks and darkened round 
his mouth. 
No jot he cared for apples, olives, roses ; 
Love made him mad : the whole 
world was neglected. 
The very sheep went backward to their 
closes 
From out the fair green pastures, self- 
directed. 
And singing Galatea, thus, he wore 
The sunrise down along the weedy 
shore. 
And pined alone, and felt the cruel 
wound 
Beneath his heart, which Cypris's 
arrow bore. 
With a deep pang ; but, so, the cure was 
found ; 
And sitting on a lofty rock he cast 
His eyes upon the sea* and sang at 
last ;— 
'O whitest Galatea, can it be 

That thou shouldst spurn me off who 
love thee so ? 
More white than curds, my girl, thou 

art to see. 
More meek than lambs, more full of 
leaping glee 
Than kids, and brighter than the 
early glow 



154 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



On grapes that swell to ripen, — sour like 

thee! 
Thou comest to me with the fragrant 
sleep. 
And with the fragrant sleep thou goest 
from me ; 
Thou fliest . . fliest, as a frightened sheep 
Flies the gray wolf! — yet Love did 
overcome me. 
So long ; — I loved thee, maiden, first 
of all 
When down the hills (my mother fast 
beside thee) 
I saw thee stray to pluck the summer- 
fall 
Of hyacinth bells, and went myself to 
guide thee : 
And since my eyes have seen thee, they 
can leave thee 
No more, from that day's light ! But 
thou . . by Zeus, 
Thou wilt not care for that to let it 
grieve thee ! 
I know tliee, fair one, why thou 
springcst loose 
From my arm round thee. Why ? I 
tell thee, Dear ! 
One shaggy eyebrow draws its smudg- 
ing road 
Straight through my ample front, from 
ear to ear, — 
One eye rolls underneath ; and yawn- 
ing, broad 
Flat nostrils feel the bulging lips too 

near. 
Yet . . ho, ho ! — /, — whatever I ap- 
pear, — 
Do feed a thousand oxen ! When I 
have done, 
I milk the cows, and drink the milk 
that's best ! 
I lack no cheese, while summer keeps 
the sun ; 
And after, in the cold, it's ready prest ! 
And then, I know to sing, as there is 
none 
Of all the Cyclops can, . . a song of 

thee. 
Sweet apple of my soul, on love's fair 

tree. 
And of myself who love thee . . till 

the West 
Forgets the light, and all but I have rest. 
I feed for thee, besides, eleven fair does. 



And all in fawn ; and four tame 
whelps of bears. 
Come to me. Sweet! thou shalt have 
all of those 
In change for love ! 1 will not halve 
the shares. 
Leave the blue sea, with pure white 
arms extended 
To the dry shore ; and in my cave's 
recess. 
Thou shalt be gladder for the noonlight 
ended, — 
For here be laurels, spiral cypresses. 
Dark ivy, and a vine whose leaves 

enfold 
Most luscious grapes ; and here is water 
cold. 
The wooded .(Etna pours down 
through the trees 
From the white snows, — which gods 
were scarce too bold 
To drink in turn with nectar. Who 

with these 
Would choose the salt wave of the 
lukewarm seas ? 
Nay, look on me ? If I am hairy and 
rough, 
I have an oak's heart in me ; there's a 
fire 
In these gray ashes which burns hot 
enough ; 
And when I burn for thee, I grudge 
the pyre 
No fuel . . not my soul, nor this one 

eye,— 
Most precious thing I have, because 

thereby 
I see thee. Fairest ! Out. alas ! I wish 
My mother had borne me finned like a 

fish. 
That I might plunge down in the ocean 
near thee. 
And kiss thy glittering hand between 
the weeds. 
If still thy face were turned ; and I 
would bear thee 
Each lily white, and poppy fair that 
bleeds 
Its red heart down its leaves ! — one gift, 
for hours 
Of summer, . . one, for winter ; since, 
to cheer thee, 
I could not bring at once all kinds of 
flowers. 



TRANSLATIONS. 



155 



Even now, girl, now, I fain would learn 
to swim, 
If stranger in a ship sailed nigh, I 

wis, — 
That I may know how sweet a thing 
it is 
To live down with you in the Deep and 

Diml 
Come up, O Galatea, from the ocean. 

And having come, forget again to go I 
As I, who sing out here my heart's 
emotion. 
Could sit forever. Come up from 
below ! 
Come, keep my flocks beside me, milk 
my kine, — 
Come, press my cheese, distrain my 
whey and curd 1 
Ah, mother 1 she alone . . that mother 
of mine . . 
Did wrong me sore ! I blame her ! — 
Not a word 
Of kindly intercession did she address 
Thine ear with for my sake ; and ne'er- 
theless 
She saw me wasting, wasting, day by 

day ! 
Both head and feet were aching, I 
will say. 
All sick for grief, as I myself was sick 1 
O Cyclops, Cyclops, whither hast thou 

sent 
Thy soul on fluttering wings ? If thou 
wert bent 
On turning bowls, or pulling green and 

thick 
The sprouts to give thy lambkins, — thou 
wouldst make thee 
A wiser Cyclops than for what we 
take thee. 
Milk dry the present ! Why pursue too 

quick 
That future which is fugitive aright ? 
, Thy Galatea thou shalt haply find, — 
Or else a maiden fairer and more 
kind : 
For many girls do call me through the 
night. 
And, as they«all, do laugh out silver- 

ly- 

/, too, am something in the world, I 
see I' 



While thus the Cyclops love and 
lambs did fold. 
Ease came with song, he could not buy 
with gold. 



PARAPHRASES ON APULEIUS. 

PSYCHE GAZING ON CUPID. 

{Metamorph., Lib. IV.) 

Then Psyche, weak in body and soul, 
put on 
The cruelty of Fate, in place of 
strength : 
She raised the lamp to see what should 
be done. 
And seized the steel, and was a man 
at length 
In courage, though a woman 1 Yes, but 
when 
The light fell on the bed whereby she 
stood 
To view the ' beast ' that lay there,-- 
certes, then. 
She saw the gentlest, sweetest beast 
in wood — 
Even Cupid's self, the beauteous god I 
more beauteous 
For that sweet sleep across his eyelid* 
dim ! 
The light, the lady carried as she 
viewed. 
Did blush for pleasure as it lighted 
him. 
The dagger trembled from its aim un- 
duteous ; 
And s/ie . . oh, s/te — amazed and sou\ 
distraught. 
And fainting in her whiteness like Ji 
veil, 
Slid down upon her knees, and, shud- 
dering thought 
To hide — though in her heart — the dag- 
ger pale^! 
She would have done it, but her hands 
did fail 
To hold the guilty steel, they shiv- 
ered so, — 
And feeble, exhausted, unawares she 
took 



tS* 



TRANSLATIONS. 



To gaeing on the god,— till, look by 
look 
Her eyes with larger life did fill and 
glow. 
She saw his golden head alight with 
curls, — 
She might have guessed their bright- 
ness in the dark 
By that ambrosial smell of heavenly 
mark 1 
She saw the milky brow, more pure 
than, pearls. 
The purple of the cheeks, divinely 
sundered 
By the globed ringlets, as they glided 

free, 
Some back, some forwards, — all so ra- 
diantly. 
That, as she watched them there, she 

never wondered 
To see the lamplight, where it touched 
them, tremble ; 
On the god's shoulders, too, she marked 
his wings 
Shine faintly at the edges and resem- 
ble 
A flower that's near to blow. The poet 
sings 
And lover sighs, that Love is fugi- 
tive ; 
And certes, though these pinions lay re- 
posing, 
The feathers on them seemed to stir 
and live 
As if by instinct closing and unclosing. 
Meantime the god's fair body slum- 
bered deep. 
All worthy of Venus, in his shining 

sleep ; 
While at the bed's foot lay the quiv- 
er, bow. 
And darts, — his arms of godhead. 
Psyche gazed 
With eyes that drank the wonders in, 
— said — ' Lo, 
Be these my husband's arms?' — and 
straightway raised 
An arrow from the quiver-case, and 
tried 
Its point against her finger, — trembling 
till 
She piLshed it in too deeply (foolish 
bride !) 



And made her blood some dewdrops 

small distil. 
And learnt to love Love, of her own 

goodwill. 

PSYCHE WAFTED BY ZEPHYKUS. 

{Metamorph., Lib. IV.) 

While Psyche wept upon the rock for- 
saken. 
Alone, despairing, dreading, — ^grad- 
ually 
By Zephyrus she was enwrapt and ta- 
ken 
Still trembling, — like the lilies planted 
high,— 
Through all her fair white limbs. Her 
vesture spread. 
Her very bosom eddying with sur- 
prise, — 
He drew her slowly from the mountain- 
head. 
And bore her down the valleys with 
wet eyes. 
And laid her in the lap of a green dell 
As soft with grass and flowers as any 
nest. 
With trees beside her, and a limpid 
well: 
Yet Love was not far off from all that 
Rest. 

PYSCHE AND PAN. 

[Metamorph., Lib. V.) 

The gentle River, in her Cupid's honor. 
Because he used to warm the very 
wave. 
Did ripple aside, instead of closing on 
her. 
And cast up Psyche, with a refluence , 
brave. 
Upon the flowery bank, — all sad and 

sinning. 
Then Pan, the rural god, by chance wa.<; 
leaning 
Along the brow of the waters as they 

wound. 
Kissing the reed-nymph till she sank 
to the ground. 



And teaching, without knowledge of the 
meaning. 
To run her voice in music after his 
Down many a shifting note ; (the goats 
around, 
In wandering pasture and most leap- 
ing bliss, 
Drawn on to crop the river's flowery 

hair.) 
And as the hoary god beheld her there. 
The poor, worn, fainting Psyche ! — 

knowing all 
The grief she suffered, he did gently 
call 
Her name, and softly comfort her des- 
pair : — 

' O wise, fair lady, I am rough and 
rude. 
And yet experienced through my weary 
age! 
And if I read aright, as soothsayer 
should. 
Thy faltering steps of heavy pilgrim- 
age. 
Thy paleness, deep as the snow we 
cannot see 
The roses through, — thy sighs of quick 

returning. 
Thine eyes that seem, themselves, two 
souls in mourning, — 
Thou lovest, girl, too well, and bitter- 
ly! 
But hear me : rush no more to a head- 
long fall : 
Seek no more deaths ! leave wail, lay 
sorrow down, 
And pray the sovran god ; and use 
withal 
Such prayer as best may suit a tender 
youth, 
Well-pleased to bend to flatteries from 
mouth, 
And feel them stir the myrtle of his 
erown.' 



« — So spake the shepherd -god ; and 

answer none 
Gave Psyche in return : but silently 
She did him homage with a bended 
knee, 
And took the onward path. — 



TRANSLA TIONS. 157 

PSYCHE PROPITIATING CERES. 



{Metamorph., Lib. VI.) 
Then mother Ceres from afar beheld 
her, 
While Psyche touched, with reverent 
fingers meek. 
The temple's scythes ; and with a cry 
compelled her : 
' O wretched Psyche, Venus roams to 
seek 
Thy wandering footsteps round the 

weary earth. 
Anxious and maddened, and adjiire55 
thee forth 
To accept the imputed pang, and let 
her wreak 
Full vengeance with full force of deity I 
Yet thou, forsooth, art in my temple 
here. 
Touching my scythes, assuming my 
degree. 
And daring to have thoughts that are 
not fear !' 
— But Psyche clung to her feet, and as 
they moved 
Rained tears along their track, tear 
dropped on tear, 
And drew the dust on in her trailing 
locks. 
And still, with passionate prayer, the 
charge disproved : — 
' Now, by thy right hand's gathering 

from the shocks 
Of golden corn, — and by thy gladsom^e 

rites 
Of harvest, — and thy consecrated sights 
Shut safe and mute in chests, — and by 

the course 
Of thy slave-dragons, — and the driving 

force 
Of ploughs along Sicilian glebes pro- 
found, — 
By thy swift chariot, — by thy steadfast 

ground, — 
By all those nuptial torches that departed 
With thy losl^ daughter, — and by those 
that shone 
Back with her, when she came again 
giad-hearted, — 
And by all other mysteries which are 
done 
In silence at Eleusis, — I beseech thee. 



^58 



TRANSLATIONS, 



Ceres, take some pity, and abstain 
From giving to my soul extremer pain 

Who am the wretched Psyche ! Let 
me teach thee 
A httle mercy, and have thy leave to 
spend 
A few days only in thy garnered corn, 
Until that wrathful goddess, at the 
end. 
Shall feel her hate grow mild, the longer 

bourne, — 
Or till, alas ! — this faintness at my breast 
Pass from me, and my spirit apprehend 
From life-long woe a breath-time hour 

of rest !' 
— But Ceres answered, ' I am moved 
indeed 
By prayers so moist with tears,and 
would defend 
The poor beseecher from more utter 
need : 
But where old oaths, anterior ties, 
commend, 

1 cannot fail to a sister, lie to a friend. 
As Venus is to 7tie. Depart with speed 1' 



rSYCHE AND THE EAGLE. 
(Mela-morph., Lib. VL) 

But sovran Jove's rapacious bird, the 

regal 
High percher on the lightning, the great 

eagle 
Drove down with rushing wings ; and, 

— thinking how, 
By Cupid's help, he bore from Ida's brow 
A cup-boy for his master, — he inclined 
To yield, in just return, an influence 

kind ; 
The god being honored in his lady's woe. 
And thus the bird wheeled downward 

from the track, 
Gods follow gods in, to the level low 
Of that poor face of Psyche left in wrack 
— ' Now fie, thou simple girl 1' the Bird 

began ; 
' For if thou think to steal and carry back 
A drop of holiest stream that ever ran, 
No simpler thought, methinks, were 

found in man. 
What ! knowest thou not these Stygian 

waters be 



Most holy, even to Jove? that as, on 

earth. 
Men swear by gods, and by the thun- 
der's worth, 
Even so the heavenly gods do utter forth 
Their oaths by Styx's flowing majesty 1 
And yet, one little urnful, I agree 
To grant thy needl' Whereat, all 

hastily. 
He takes it, fills it from the willing wave. 
And bears it in his beak, incarnadined 
By the last Titan-prey he screamed to 

have ; 
And, striking calmly out, against the 

wind. 
Vast wings on each side, — there, where 

Psyche stands. 
He drops the urn down in her lifted 

hands. 

I'SVCHE AND CERBERUS. 
(Uetam(rrvh.,\.\h. VI.) 

A MIGHTY Dog with three colossal necks. 
And heads in grand proportion ; vast 
as fear. 

With jaws that bark the thunder out 
that breaks 
In most innocuous dread for ghosts 
anear. 

Who are safe in death from sorrow : he 
reclines 

Across the threshold of queen Proser- 
pine's 

Dark-sweeping halls, and, there, for 
Pluto's spouse. 

Doth guard the entrance of the empty 
house. 

When Psyche threw the cake to him, 
once amain 

He howled up wildly from his hunger- 
pain. 

And was still, after. — 

I'SYCHE AND PROSERPINE. 

{mtamor-pJi., Lib, VL) 

Then Psyche entered in to Proserpine 
In the dark house, and straightway did 

decline 
With meek denial the luxurious seat. 
The liberal board for welcome stran- 
gers spread. 



TRANSLATIONS. 



159 



But snte down lowly at the dark queen's 
feet. 
And told her talc, and brake her oaten 
bread. 
And when she had given the pyx in 
humble duty, 
And told how Venus did entreat the 
queen 
To fill it up with only one day's beauty 
She used in Hades, star-bright and 
serene, 
To beautify the Cyprian, who had been 
All spoilt with grief in nursing her 
sick boy, — 
Then Proserpine, in malice and in joy. 
Smiled in the shade, and took the pyx, 

and put 
A secret in it ; and so, filled and shut, 
Gave it again to Pysche. Could she 

tell 
It held no beauty, but a dream of hell ? 



PSYCHE AND VENU . 

{Metavtorph., Lib. VI.) 

And Psyche brought to Venus what was 

sent 
By Pluto's spouse ; the paler, that she 

went 
So low to seek it, down the dark descent. 

MERCURY CARRIES PSYCHE TO OLYMPUS. 

[Metamorph., Lib. VL) 

Then Jove commanded the god Mer- 
cury 

To float up Psyche from the earth. And 
she 

Sprang at the first word, as the fountain 
springs. 

And shot up bright and rustling through 
his wings. 

MARRIAGE OF PSYCHE AND CUPID. 

[Metamorph., Lib. VL) 

And Jove's right-hand approached the 

ambrosial bowl 
To Pysche's lips, that scarce dared 

yet to smile,— 
'Drink, O my daughter, and acquaint 

thy soul 



With deathless uses, and be glad the 
while ! 
No more shall Cupid leave thy lovely 
side ; 
Thy maniage-joy begins for never- 
ending.' 
While yet he spake, — the nuptial feast 
supplied, — 
The bridegroom on the festive couch 
was bending 
O'er Psyche in his bosom— Jove, the 
same 
On Juno, and the other deities, 
Alike ranged round. The rural cup-boy 
came 
And poured Jove's nectar out with 
shining eyes, 
While Bacchus, lo: the others, did as 
much. 
And Vulcan spread the meal ; and all 

the Hours, 
Made all things purple with a sprinkle 
of flowers, t 

Or roses chiefly, not to say the touch 
Of their sweet fingers ; and the 
Graces glided 
Their balm around, r.nd the Muses, 
through the air 
Struck out clear voices, which were 
still divided 
By that divine^t f^n.g Apollo there 
Intoned to nis lute ; while Aphrodite 
fair 
Did float her beauty along the tune, and 
play 
The notes right with her feet. And 
thus, the day 
Through every perfect mood of joy was 
carried. 
The Muses sang their chorus ; Satyrus 
Did blow his pipes ; Pan touched his 
reed ; — and thus 
At last were Cupid and Psyche married. 



PARAPHRASES ON NONNUS. 

HOW BACCHUS FINDS ARIADNE SLEEPING. 

{Dionysiaca, Lib. XLVH.) 

When Bacchus first beheld the deso- 
late 
And sleeping Ariadne, wonder straight 



t6o 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Was mixed with love in his great golden 

eyes ; 
He turned to his Bacchantes in surprise. 
And said with guarded voice, — ' Hush ! 

strike no more 
Your brazen cymbals ; keep those voices 

still 
Of voice and pipe ; and since ye stand 

before 
Queen Cypns, let her slumber as she 

will ! 
And yet the cestus is not here in proof. 
A Grace, perhaps, whom sleep has sto- 
len aloof : 
In which case, as morning shines in 

view. 
Wake this Aglaia ! — yet in Naxos, who 
Would veil a Grace so 1 Hush 1 And 

if that she 
Were Hebe, which of all the gods can 

be 
The pourer-out of wine? or if we think 
She's like the shining moon by ocean's 

brink, 
The guide of herds, — why, could she 

sleep without 
Endymion's breath on her cheek ? or if 

I doubt 
Of silver- footed Thetis, used to tread 
These shores, — even she (in reverence 

be it said) 
Has no such rosy beauty to dress deep 
With the blue waves. The Loxian 

goddess might 
Repose so from her hunting-toil aright 
Beside the sea, since toil gives birth to 

sleep, 
But who would find her with her tunic 

loose. 
Thus ? Stand off, Thraciau ! stand off! 

Do not leap. 
Not this way I Leave that piping, since 

I choose, 
O dearest Pan, and let Athene rest ! 
And yet if she be Pallas . . truly 

guessed. . 
Her lance is — where ? her helm and asgis 
— where V 
— As Bacchus closed, the miserable 

Fair 
Awoke at last, sprang upward from the 

sands, 
And gazing wild on that wild throng 

that stands 



Around, around her, and no Theseus 

there ! — 
Her voice went moaning over shore and 

sea. 
Beside the halcyon's cry ; she called 

her love ; 
She name d her hero, and raged mad- 
den ingly 
Against the brine of waters ; and 

above. 
Sought the ship's track and cursed the 

hours she slept ; 
And still the chiefest execration swept 
Against queen Paphia, mother of the 

ocean ; 
And cursed and prayed by times in her 

emotion 
The winds all round. . . 



Her grief did make her glorious; her 

despair 
Adorned her with its weight. Poor 

wailing child ! 
She looked like Venus when the goddess 

smiled 
At liberty of godship, debonair ; 
Poor Ariadne ! and her eyelids fair 
Hid looks beneath them lent her by 

Persuasion 
And every Grace, with tears of Love's 

own passion. 
She wept long ; then she spake : — 

' Sweet sleep did come 
While sweetest 1 heseus went. O, glad 

and dumb, 
I wish he had left me still ! for in my 

sleep 
I saw his Athens, and did gladly keep 
I\Iy new bride-state within my Theseus' 

hall; 
And heard the pomp of Hymen, and 

the call 
Of ' Ariadne, Ariadne,' sung 
In choral joy ; and there, with joy I 

hung 
Spring-blossoms round love's altar ! — ay, 

and wore 
A wreath myself ; and felt ht'tn ever- 
more. 
Oh, evermore beside me, with his 

mighty 
Grave head bowed down in prayer to 

Aphrodite 1 



TRANSLATIONS. 



i6t 



Why, what sweet, sweet dream I He 

went with it. 
And left me here unwedded where I 

sit ! 
Persuasion help me I The dark night 

did make me 
A bridcship, the fair morning takes 

away ; 
My Love had left me when the Hour did 

wake me ; 
And while I dreamed of marriage, as 

I say, 
And blest it well, my blessed Theseus 

left me : 
And thus the sleep, 1 loved so, has be- 
reft me. 
Speak to me, rocks, and tell my grief 

to-day. 
Who stole my love of Athens ?'.... 

HOW BACCHUS COMFORTS ARIAUNE, 

{Dtotiysiaca, Lib. X LV 1 1 . ) 

Then Bacchus' subtle speech her sorrow 

crossed : — 
• O maiden, dost thou mourn for having 

lost 
The false Athenian heart ? and dost thou 

still 
Take thought of Theseus, when thou 

may'st at will 
Have Bacchus for a husband ? Bacchus 

bright 
A god in place of mortal ! Yes, and 

though 
The mortal youth be charming in thy 

sight, 
That man of Athens cannot strive be- 
low. 
In beauty and valor, with my deity ! 
Thou'lt tell me of the labyrinthine 

dweller. 
The fierce man-bull, he slew : I pray 

thee, be, 
Fiir Ariadne, the true deed's true 

teller, 
And mention thy clue's help! because, 

forsooth. 
Thine armed Athenian hero had not 

found 
A power to fight on that prodigioas 

ground, 
Unless a lady in her rosy youth 



Had lingered near him : not to speak 

the truth 
Too definitely out till names be known — 
Like Paphia's — Love's— and Ariadne's 

own. 
Thou wilt not say that Athens can com- 
pare 
With .(Ether, nor that Minos rules like 

Zeus, 
Nor yet that Gnossus has such golden 

air 
As high Olympus. Ha ! for noble use 
We came to Naxos ! Love has well in- 
tended 
To change thy bridegroom ! Happy 

thou, defended 
From entering in thy Theseus' earthly 

hall. 
That thou mayst hear the laughters rise 

and fall 
Instead, where Bacchus rules ! Or wilt 

thou choose 
A still-surpassing glory ? — take it all, — 
A heavenly house, Kronion's self for 

kin,— 
A place where Cassiopea sits within 
Inferior light, for all her daughter's 

sake, 
Since Perseus, even amid the stars, must 

take 
Andromeda in chains aetherial ! 
But / will wreathe thee, sweet, an astral 

crown. 
And as my queen and spouse thou shalt 

be known — 
Mine, the crown-lover's!' Thus, at 

length, he proved 
His comfort on her ; and the maid was 

moved ; 
And casting I'heseus' memory down the 

brine. 
She straight received the troth of her 

divine 
Fair Bacchus ; Love stood by to close 

the rite : 
The marriage-chorus struck up clear and 

light. 
Flowers sprouted fast about the chamber 

green. 
And with spring-garlands on their 

heads, I ween. 
The Orchomenian dancers came along, 
And danced their rounds in Naxos to 
the song. 



TRANSLATIONS, 



A Hamadryad sang a nuptial dit 
Right shrilly : and a Naiad sate beside 
A fountain, with her bare foot shelving it, 
And hymned of Ariadne, beauteous 

bride, 
Whom thus the god of grapes had dei- 
fied. 
Ortygia sang out, louder than her wont. 
An ode which Phoebus gave her to be 

tried, 
And leapt in chorus, with her steadfast 

front, 
While prophet Love, the stars have 

called a brother, 
Burnt in his crown, and twined in one 

another. 
His love-flower with the purple roses, 

given 
In type of that new crown assigned in 

heaven. 



PARAPHRASE ON HESIOD. 



DACCHUS AND ARIADNE. 

{Theog., 947.) 

The golden-haired Bacchus did espouse 

That fairest Ariadne, Minos' daughter, 

And made her wifehood blossom in the 

house ; 
Where such protective gifts Kronion 

brought her. 
Nor Death nor Age could find her 

when they sought her. 



PARAPHRASE ON EURIPIDES. 

ANTISTROl'HE* 

[Troades, 853.) 

Love, Love who once didst pass the 
Dardan portals. 
Because of Heavenly passion I 
Who once didst lift up Troy in exulta- 
tion. 
To mingle in thy bond the high Immor- 
tals !— 
Love, turned from his own name 



To Zeus' shame, 
Can help no more all. 

And Eoe' self, the fair, white-stceded 
morning, — 

Her light which blesses other lands, re- 
turning, 
Has changed to a gloomy pall 1 

She looked across the land with eyes of 
amber, — 
She saw the city's fall, — 
She, who, in pure embraces. 

Had held there, in the hymeneal cham- 
ber. 

Her children's father, bright Tithonus 
old. 

Whom the four steeds with starry brows 
and paces 

Bore on, snatched upward, on the car of 
gold. 

And with him, all the lind s full hope of 
joy! 

The love-charms of the gods are vain 
for Troy. 

J NoTK. — Rendered after Mr. Burges's remlliit;, 

in Bonie respects— not quite all. 



PARAPHRASES ON HOMER. 

HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. 
{Iliad, Ll'b. VI.) 

She rushed to meet him : the nurse fol- 
lowing 

Bore on her bosom the unsaddened 
child, 

A simple babe, prince Hector's well- 
loved son, 

Like a star shining when the world is 
dark. 

Scamandrius, Hector called him, but the 
rest 

Named him Astyanax, the city's prince. 

Because that Hector only, had saved 
Troy. 

He, when he saw his son, smiled silently : 

While, dropping tears, Andromache 
pressed on. 

And clung to his hand, and spake, and 
named his name. 

' Hector, my best one, — thine own noble- 
ness 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



163 



Miist needs undo thee. Pity hast thou 

none 
For this young chiUl, and tliis most sad 

myself. 
Who soon shall be thy widow — since 

that soon 
The Greeks will slay thee in the general 

rush — 
And then, for me, what refuge, reft of 

thee. 
But to go graveward ? Then, no com- 
fort more 
Shall touch me, as in the old sad times 

thou know'st — 
Grief only — grief I I have no father 

now. 
No mother mild ! Achilles the divine. 
He slew my father, sacked his lofty 

Thebes, 
Cilicia's populous city, and slew its king, 
Eetion — father, did not spoil the corse. 
Because the Greek revered him in his 

soul. 
But burnt the body with its daedal arms. 
And poured the dust out gently. Round 

that tomb 
The Oreads, daughters of the goat- 
nursed Zeus, 
Tripped in a ring, and planted their 

green elms. 
There were seven brothers with me in 

the house. 
Who all went down to Hades in one 

day, — 
For he slew all, Achilles the divine, 
Famed for his swift feet, — slain among 

their herds 
Of cloven-footed bulls and flocking 

sheep ! 
My mother too, who queened it o'er the 

woods 
Of Hippoplacia, he, with other spoil. 
Seized, — and, for golden ransom, freed 

too late, — 
Since, as she went home, arrowy Arte- 
mis 
Met her and slew her at my father's 

door. 
But — oh, my Hector, — thou art still to 

me 
Either and mother! — yes, and brother 

dear, 
O thou, who art my sweetest spouse 

beside 1 



Come now, and take me into pity ! 

Stay 
r the town here with us ! Do not make 

thy child 
An orphan, nor a widow, thy poor wife ! 
Call up the people to the fig-tree, where 
The city is most accessible, the wall 
Most easy of assault ! — for thrice there- 
by 
The boldest Greeks have mounted to 

the breach, — 
Both Ajaxes, the famed Idomeneus 
Two sons of Atreus, and the noble one 
Of Tydeus, — whether taught by some 

wise seer. 
Or by their own souls prompted and 
inspired.' 

Great Hector answered : — ' Lady, foi 

these things 
It is my part to care. And / fear most 
My Trojans, and their daughters, and 

their wives. 
Who through their long veils would 

glance scorn at me, 
If, coward-like, I shunned the open war. 
Nor doth my own soul prompt me to 

that end ! 
I learnt to be a brave man constantly. 
And to fight foremost where my I'rojans 

fight. 
And vindicate my father's glory and 

mine — 
Because I know, by instinct and my 

soul. 
The day comes that our sacred Troy 

must fall. 
And Priam and his people. Knowing 

which, 
I have no such grief for all my Trojan's 

sake. 
For Hecuba's, for Priam's, our old king. 
Not for my brothers', who so many and 

brave 
Shall bite the dust before our enemies, — 
As, sweet, for thee ! — to think some 

mailed Gceek 
Shall lead thee weeping and deprive thy 

life 
Of the free sun-sight^ — that, when gone 

away 
To Argos, thou shall throw the distaff 

there 
Not for thy uses — or shalt carry instead 



i64 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Upon thy loathing brow, as heavy a 

doom. 
The water of Greek wells— Me&seis' 

own, 
Or Hyperea's !— that some stander-by. 
Marking thy tears fall, shall say, 'This 

is she. 
The wife of that same Hector who 

fought best 
()f all the Trojans, when all fought for 

Troy — ' 
Ay !— and, so speaking, shall renew thy 

pang 
That, reft of him so named, thoushouidst 

survive 
To a slave's life ! But earth shall hide 

my corse 
Ere that shriek sound, wherewith thou 

art dragged from Troy.' 

Thus Hector spake, and stretched his 

arms to his child. 
Against the nurse's breast, with childly 

cry. 
The boy clung back, and shunned his 

fitlicr's face, 
And feared the glittering brass and 

w.iving hair 
Of the high helmet, nodding horror 

down. 
The father .smiled, the mother could not 

choose 
But smile too. Then he lifted from his 

brow 
The helm, and set it on the ground to 

shine : 
Then, kisse 1 his dear child — raised him 

with both arms, 
And thus invoked Zeus and the general 

gods :— 

' Zeus, and all godships ! grant this boy 

of mine 
To be the Trojan.s' help, as I myself, — 
To live a brave life and rule well in 

Troy ! 
Till men shall say, 'The son exceeds 

the sire 
By a far glory.' Let him bring home 

spoil 
Heroic, and make glad his mother's 

heart ' 

With which prayer, to his wife's ex- 
tended arms 



He gave the child ; and she received 

him straight 
To her bosom's fragrance — smiling up 

her tears. 
Hector gazed on her till his soul was 

moved ; 
Then softly touched her with his hand 

and spake. 
'My best one— 'ware of passion and 

excess 
In any fear. There's no man in the 

world 
Can send me to the grave apart from 

fate, — 
And no man . . Sweet, I tell thee . . 

can fly fate — 
No good nor bad man. Doom is self- 
fulfilled. 
But now, go iiome, and ply thy woman's 

task 
Of wheel and distaff! bid thy maidens 

haste 
Iheir occupation. War's a care for 

men — 
For all men born in Troy, and chief for 

me.' 

Thus spake the noble Hector, and re- 
sumed 

His crested helmet, while his spouse 
went home ; 

But as she went, still looked back 
lovingly. 

Dropping the tears from her reverted 
face. 



THE DAUGHTERS OF PANDARUS. 

(Odyss., Lib. XX.) 

And so these daughters fair of Pandarus, 
The whirlwinds took. The gods had 

slain their kin : 
They were left orphans in their father'; 

house. 
And Aphrodite came to comfort them 
With incense, luscious honey, and fra- 
grant wine ; 
And Here gave them beauty of face and 

.soul 
Beyond all women ; purest Artemis 
Endowed them with her stature and 

white grace ; 
And Pallas taught their hands to flash 
along 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



i6s 



Her famous looms. Then, bright with 
deity, 

Toward far Olympus, Aphrodite went 

To ask of Zeus (who has his thunder-joys 

And his full knowledge of man's min- 
gled fate) 

How best to crown those other gifts with 
love 
I And worthy marriage : but, what time 
she went. 

The ravishing Harpies snatched the 
maids away. 

And gave them up, for all their loving 
eyes. 

To serve the Furies who hate constantly. 

ANOTHER VERSION. 

So the storms bore the daughters of 
Pandarus out into thrall — 

The gods slew their parents ; the or- 
phans were left in the hall. 

And there came, to feed their young 
lives. Aphrodite divine. 

With the incense, the sweet-tasting 
honey, the sweet-smelling wine ; 

Here brought them her wit above wom- 
an's, and beauty of face ; 

And pure Artemis gave them her stat- 
ure, that form might have grace : 

And Athene instructed their hands in 
her works of renown ; 

Then, afar to Olympus, divine Aphrodite 
moved on : 

To complete other gifts, by uniting each 
girl to a mate. 

She sought Zeus, who has joy in the 
thunder and knowledge of fate, 

Whether mortals have good chance or 
ill ! But the Harpies alate 

In the storm came, and swept off the 
maidens, and gave them to wait, 

With that love in their eyes, on the 
Furies who constantly hate. 



PARAPHRASE ON ANACREON. 

ODE TO THE SWALLOW. 

Thou indeed, little Swallow, 
A sweet yearly comer. 
Art building a hollow 
New nest every summer. 



And straight dost depart 
Where no gazing can follow. 
Past Memphis, down Nile ! 
Ay ! but love all the while 
Builds his nest in my heart. 
Through the cold winter-weeks : 
And as one Love takes flight. 
Comes another, O Swallow, 
In an egg warm and white. 
And another is callow. 
And the large gaping beaks 
Chirp all day and all night : 
And the Loves who are older 
Help the young and the poor Loves, 
And the young Loves grown bolder 
Increase by the score Loves — 
Why, what can be done ? 
If a noise comes from one. 
Can I bear all this rout of a hundred 
and more Loves ? 



SONG OF THE ROSE. 

ATTRIBUTED TO SAPPHO. 

If Zeus chose us a King of the flowers 
in his mirth. 
He would call to the rose, and would 
royally crown it ; 
For the rose, ho, the rose ! is the grace 
of the earth. 
Is the light of the plants that are 
growing upon it ! 
For the rose, ho, the rose ! is the eye of 
the flowers. 
Is the blush of the meadows that feel 
themselves fair, — 
Is the lightning of beauty that strikes 
through the bowers 
On pale lovers that sit in the glow un- 
aware. 
Ho, the rose breathes of love ! ho, the 

rose lifts the cup 
To the red lips of Cypris invoked for 
a guest ! 
Ho, the rose having curled its sweet 
leaves for the world 
Takes delight in the motion its petals 
keep up. 
As they laugh to the Wind as it laughs 
from the west. 

From AchiXXet 'J'utiua. 



i66 



THE FOURFOLD ASPECT. 



THE FOURFOLD ASPECT. 

When ye stood up in the house 

With your little childish feet, 
And in touching Life's first shows. 

First the touch of Love did meet, — 
Love and Nearness seeming one. 

By the heart-light cast before, 
And, of all Beloveds, none 

Standing farther than the door — 
Not a name being dear to thought, 

With its owner beyond call. 
Nor a face, unless it brought 

Its own shadow to the wall. 
When the worst recorded change 

Was of apple dropt from bough. 
When love's sorrow seemed more 
strange 

Than love's treason can seem now ; 
Then, the Loving took you up 

Soft, upon their elder knees, — 
Telling why the statues droop 

Underneath the churchyard trees. 
And how yc must lie l^eneath tlieiii 

Through the winters long and deep, 
Till the last trump overbreathe them. 

And ye smile out of your sleep . . . 
Oh ye lifted up your head, and it seemed 
as if they said 
A tale of fairy ships 

With a swan-wing for a sail ! — 
Oh, ye kissed their loving lips 

For the merry, merry tale ! — 
So carelessly ye thought upon the Dead. 



Soon ye read in solemn stories 

Of the men of long ago — 
Of the pale bewildering glories 

Shining farther than we know. 
Of the heroes with the laurel. 

Of the poets with the bay, 
Of the two worlds' earnest quarrel 

For that beauteous Helena. 
How Achilles at the portal 

Of the tent, heard footsteps nigh 
And his strong heart, half-immortal. 

Met the keitai with a cry, — 
How Ulysses left the simli^ht 

For the pale eidola race 
Blank and passive through the dun 
light. 

Staring blindly on his face ; 



How that true wife said to Poetus, 
With calm smile and wounded 
heart, 
• Sweet, it hurts not ! ' — how Admetus 

Saw his blessed one depart. 
How King Arthur proved his mission. 

And Sir Rowland wound his horn. 
And at Sangreal's moony vision 
Swords did bristle round like corn. 
Oh ! ye lifted up your head, and il 
seemed the while ye read. 
That this death, then, must be found 
A Valhalla for the crowned — 
The heroic who prevail. 
None, be sure can enter in 
Far below a paladin 
Of a noble, noble tale ! — 
So awfully ye thought upon the Dead. 



Ay ! but soon ye woke up shrieking, — 

As a child that wakes at night 
From a dream of sisters speaking 

In a garden's summer-light, — 
That wakes, starting up and bounding, 

In a lonely, lonely bed. 
With a wall of darkness round him. 

Stifling black about his head! — 
And the full sense of your mortal 

Rushed upon you deep and loud. 
And ye heard the thunder hurtle 

From the silence of the cloud — 
Funeral-torches at your gateway 

Threw a dreadful light within ; 
All things changed ! you rose up 
straightway 

And saluted Death and Sin. 
Since, — your outward man has rallied 

And your eye and voice grown 
bold— 
Yet the Sphinx of Life stands pallid. 

With her saddest secret told. 
Happy places have grown holy : 

If ye went where once ye went. 
Only tears would fall down slowly. 

As at solemn sacrament : 
Merry books, once read for pastime. 

If ye dared to read again. 
Only memories of the last time 

Would swim darkly up the brain. 
Household names, which used to 
flutter 

Through your laughter unawares, — 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



167 



God's Divinest ye could utter 

With less trembling in your prayers ! 

Ye have dropt adown your head, and it 
seems as if ye tread 
On your own hearts in the path 
Ye are called to in His wrath,' — 
And your prayers go up in wail 1 
— ' Dost Thou see, then, all our loss, 
O Thou agonized on cross ? 
Art Thou reading all its tale ? 

So, mournfully ye think upon the Dead 



Pray, pray, thou who also weepest. 

And the drops will slacken so ; 
Weep, weep : — and the watch thou 
keepest. 

With a quicker count will go. 
Think : — the shadow on the dial 

For the nature most undone, 
Marks the passing of the trial, 

Proves the presence of the sun : 
X-ook, look up, in starry passion. 

To the throne above the spheres, — 



Learn : the spirit's gravitation 

Still must differ from the tear's. 
Hope : with all the strength thou 
usest 

In embracing thy despair : 
Love : the earthly love thou losest 

Shall return to thee more fair. 
Work : make clear the forest-tangles 

Of the wildest stranger-land : 
Trust : the blessed deathly angels 

Whisper, ' Sabbath hours at hand !' 
By the heart's wound when most gory 

By the longest agony, 
Smile ! — Behold, in sudden glory 

The Transfigured smiles on thee ! 
And ye lifted up your head, and it 
seemed as if He said, 
' My Beloved, is it so? 
Have ye tasted of my wo ? 
Of my heaven ye shall not fail 1 ' — 
He stands brightly where the shade is. 
With the keys of Death and Hades, 
And there ends the mournful tale : — 
So hopefully ye think upon the Dead. 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



SCENE— 7%<? outer side of the gate of 
Eden shut fast ivith cloud, from 
the depth of which revolves the 
sword of fire self-jnon'ed. Adam 
and Eve are seen in the distance, 
flying along the glare. 

Lucifer, alone. 
Rejoice in the clefts of Gehenna. 

My exiled, my host ! 
Earth has exiles as hopeless as when a 

Heaven's empire was lost. 
Through the ^eams of her shaken foun- 
dations, 
Smoke up in great joy I 
With the smoke of your fierce exulta- 
tions 
Deform and destroy ! 
Smoke up with your lurid revenges, 

And darken the fac- 
Of the white he?'' ens, ind tavmt them 
w. ;b changes 



From glory and grace. 
We, in falling, while destiny strangles. 

Pull down with us all. 
Let them look to the rest of their angels ( 

Who's safe from a fall ? 
He saves not. Where's Adam ? Can 
pardon 

Requicken that sod ? 
Unkinged is the King of the Garden, 

The image of God. 
Other exiles are cast out of Eden, — 

More curse has been hurled. 
Come up, O my locusts, and feed in 

The green of the world. 
Come up ! we have conqr ared by evil. 

Good reigns,.not alone 
/prevail now, and, ang^jl or devil. 

Inherit" throne. 

[/« sudden apparition a watch of in- 
vterable angels, rank above rank, 
slopes up from around the gate to 



i68 



A DKAMA OF EXILE. 



the zenith. The angel Gabriel de- 
scends. ^ 

Luci/er. Hail Gabriel, the keeper of 
the gate ! 
Now that the fruit is plucked, prince 

Gabriel, 
I hold that Eden is impregnable 
Under thy keeping. 

Gabriel. Angel of the sin, 

Such as thou standest, — pale in the drear 

light 
Which rounds the rebel's work with 

Maker's wrath, — 
Thou slialt be an Idea to all souls ; 
A monumental melancholy gloom 
Seen down all ages ; whence to mark 

despair 
And measure out the distances from 

good ! 
Go from us straightway. 

Lticifer. Wherefore ? 

Gabriel. Lucifer, 

Thy last step in this place trod sorrow up. 
Recoil before that sorrow, if not this 
sword. 
Lucifer. Angels are in the world — 
wherefore not I ? 
Exiles are in the world — wherefore not I? 
The cursed are in the world — wherefore 
not I? 
Gabriel. Depart. 

Lucifer. And where's the logic of 
' depart ?' 
Our lady Eve had half been satisfied 
To obey her Maker, if I liad not learnt 
To fi.x my postulate better. Dost thou 

dream 
Of guarding some monopoly in heaven 
Instead of earth? Why I can dream 

with thee 
To the length of thy wings. 

Gabriel. I do not dream. 

This is not Heaven, even in a dream, 

nor eatli, 
As earth was once, — first breathed 

among the stars. 
Articulate glory from the mouth divine. 
To which the myriad spheres thrilled 

audibly 
Touched like a lute-string, — and the sons 

of God 
Said AMEN, singing it. I know that this 



Is earth not new created but new 

cursed — 
This, Eden's gate not opened but built up 
With a final cloud of sunset. Do I 

dream ? 
Alas, not so ! this is the Eden lost 
By Lucifer the serpent ! this the sword 
(This sword alive with justice and with 

fire!) 
That smote upon the forehead, Lucifer 
The angel 1 Wherefore, angel, go ... . 

depart — 
Enough is sinned and suffered. 

Lucifer. By no means. 

Here's a brave earth to sin and suffer on I 
It holds fast still — it cracks not under- 

curse ; 
It holds like mine immortal. Presently 
We'll sow it thick enough with graves as 

green 
Or greener, certes, than its knowledge- 
tree — 
We'll have the cypress for the tree of life. 
More eminent for shadow — for the rest 
We'll build it dark with towns and pyr- 
amids. 
And temples, if it please you : — we'll 

have feasts 
And funerals also, merrymakes and wars, 
Till blood and wine shall mix and run 

along 
Right o'er the edges. And, good Ga- 
briel, 
(Ye like that word in Heaven ! (/ too 

have strength — 
Strength to behold Him and not wor- 
ship Him ; 
Strength to fall from Him and not cry 

on Him ; 
Strength to be in the universe and yet 
Neither God nor his servant. The red 

sign 
Burnt on my forehead, which you taunt 

me with. 
Is God's sign that it bows not unto God ; 
The potter's mark upon his work, to show 
It rings well to the striker. I and the 

earth 
Can bear more curse. 

Gabriel. O miserable eartli, 

ruined angel ! 

Lucifer. Well ! and if it be, 

1 CHOSii this ruin : I elected it 



A DRA^TA OF EXILE. 



169 



Of my will, not of service. What I do, 
I do volitient, not obedient. 
And overtop thy crown with my despair. 
My sorrow crowns me. Get thee back 

to Heaven ; 
And leave me to the earth, which is 

mine own 
In virtue of her ruin, as I hers 
In virtue of my revolt ! turn those from 

both 
That bright, impassive, passive angel- 
hood ; 
And spare to read us backward any more 
Of the spent hallelujahs. 

Gabriel. Spirit of scorn I 

I might say, of unreason ! I might say. 
That who despairs, acts ; that who acts, 

connives 
With God's relations set in time and 

space ; 
That who elects, assumes a something 

good 
Which God made possible ; that who 

lives, obeys 
The law of a Life-maker .... 

Lucifer. L^t it pass ! 

No more, thou Gabriel ! What if I 

stand up 
And strike my brow against the crys- 

taline 
Roofing the creatures, — .shall I say for 

that. 
My stature is too high for me to stand, — 
Henceforward I must sit ? Sit thou. 
Gabriel. I kneel. 

Lucifer. A heavenly answer. Get 

thee to thy Heaven, 
And leave my earth to me. 

Gabriel. Through Heaven and'earth 
God's will moves freely ; and I follow it. 
As colour follows light. He overflows 
The firmamental walls with deity, 
Therefore with love ; His lightnings go 

abroad. 
His pity may do so ; His angels must 
Whene'er He gives them charges. 

Lucifer. Verily, 

I and my . emons — who are spirits of 

scorn — 
Might hold this charge of standing with 

a sword 
'Twixt man and his inheritance, as well 
As the benignest angel of you all. 



Gabriel. Thou speakest in the shad- 

dow of thy change. 
If thou hadst gazed upon the face of God 
This morning for a moment, thou hadst 

known 
That only pity can fitly chastise. 
While hate avenges. 

Lucifer. As it is, I know 
Something of pity. When I reeled in 

Heaven, 
And my sword grew too heavy for my 

grasp, 
Stabbing through matter which it could 

not pierce 
So much as the first shell of, — toward 

the throne ; 
When I fell back, down, — staring up as 

I fell,— 
The lightnings holding open my scathed 

lids. 
And thought of the infinite of God 
Hurled after to precipitate descent ; 
When countless angel faces still and 

stern 
Pressed out upon me from the level 

heavens, 
Adown the abysmal spaces : and I fell 
Trampled down by your stillness, and 

struck blind 
By the sight within your eyes ; — 'twas 

then I knew 
How ye could pity, my kind angel- 
hood! 
Gabriel. Alas, discrowned one, by 

the truth in me 
Which God keeps in me, I would give 

away 
All, — save that truth and His love keep- 
ing it,— 
To lead thee home again into the light. 
And hear thy voice chant with the morn- 
ing stars ; 
When their rays tremble round them 

with much song 
Sung in more gladness ! 

Lucifer. Sing, my morning star I 

Last beautifuf— last heavenly — that I 

loved ! 
If I could drench thy golden locks with 

tears. 
What were it to this angel ? 

Gabriel. What love is I 

And now I have named God. 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



Lucifer. Yet Gabriel 

By the lie in me which I keep myself 

Thou'rt a false swearer. Were It oth- 
erwise, 

What dost thou here, vouchsafing tender 
thoughts 

To that earth-angel or earth-demon — 
which. 

Thou and I have not solved the prob- 
lem yet 

Enough to argue, — that fallen Adam 
there, — 

That red-clay and a breath 1 who must, 
forsooth. 

Live in a new apocalypse of sense, 

With beauty and music waving in his 
trees 

And running in his rivers to make glad 

His soul made perfect; is it not for hope, 

A hope within thee deeper than thy 
truth. 

Of finally conducting him and his 

To fill the vacant thrones of me and 
mine, 

Which affront heaven with their vacu- 
' ity? 
Gabriel. Angel, there are no vacant 
thrones in Heaven 

To suit thy empty words. Glory and 
life 

Fulfil their own depletions : and if God 

Sighed you far from Him, His next 
breath drew in 

A compensative splendour up the vast. 

Flushing the starry arieries I 
Lucifer. With a change 1 

So let the vacant thrones and gardens 
too 

Fill as may please you ! — and be piti- 
ful. 

As ye translate that word, to the de- 
throned 

And exiled, man or angel. The fact 
sUnds, 

That I, the rebel, the cast out and 
down. 

Am here, and will not go ; while there, 
along 

The light to which ye flash the desert out 

Flies your adopted Adam I your red 
clay 

In two kinds, both being flawed. Why, 
what is this ? 



Whose work is this ? Whose hand was 

in the work ? 
Against whose hand ? In thls-last strife, 

methinks, 
I am not a fallen angel I 

Gabriel. Dost thou know 

Aught of those exiles ? 

Lucifer. Ay : I know they have fled 
Silent all day along the wilderness : 
1 know they wear for burdens on their 

backs, 
The thought of a shut gate of Paradise, 
And faces of the marshalled cherubim 
Shining against, not for them I and I 

know 
They dare not look in one another's face. 
As if each were a cherub ! 

Gabriel. Dost thou know 

Aught of their future ? 

Lucifer. Only as much as this : 

That evil will increase and multiply 
Without a benediction. 

Gabriel. Nothing more ? 

Lucifer. Why so the angels taunt I 

What should be more ? 
Gabriel. God is more. 
Lucifer. Proving what ? 

Gabriel. That he is God, 

And capable of saving. Lucifer, 
I charge thee by the solitude He kept 
Ere he created, — leave the earth to 
Godl 
Lucifer. My foot is on the earth, 

firm as my sin I 
Gabriel. 1 charge thee by the mem- 
ory of Heaven 
Ere any sin was done, — leave earth to 
God ! 
Lucifer. My sin is on the earth, to 

reign thereon. 
Gabriel. I charge thee by the choral 
song we sang 
When up against the white shore of our 

feet. 
The depths of the creation swelled and 

brake, — 
And the new worlds, the beaded foam 

and flower 
Of all that coil, roared outward into 

space 
On thunder-edges, — leave the earth to 
God. 
Lucifer. My woe is on the earth, to 
curse thereby. 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



xjz 



Gabriel. I charge thee by that 

mournful morning star 
Which trembles .... 

Lucifer. Enough spoken. As the 

pine 
In norland forest, drops its weight of 

sr»ows 
By a night's growth, so, growing to- 
ward my ends, 
I drop thy coimsels. Farewell, Gabriel ! 
Watch out thy service ; I achieve my 

will. 
And peradventure in the after years, 
V/hen thoughtful men shall bend their 

spacious brows 
Upon the storm and strife seen every- 
where. 
To ruffle their smooth manhood and 

break up 
With lurid lights of intermittent hope 
Their human fear and wrong, — they 

may discern 
The heart of a lost angel in the earth. 



CHORUS OF EDEN SPIRITS, 

{Chanting froftt Paradise, ivhile 
Adam and Eve fly across the sword- 
glarc.) 

Harken, oh harken I let your souls be- 
hind you 
Turn, gently moved I 
Our voices feel along the Dread to find 
you, 
O lost, beloved ! 
Through the thick-shielded and strong- 
marshalled angels. 
They press and pierce : 
Our requiems follow fast on our evan- 
gels,— 
Voice throbs in verse I 
We are but orphaned spirits left in 
Eden, 
A time ago — 
God gave us golden cups : and we were 
bidden 
To feed you so ! 
But now our right hand hath no cup 
remaining. 
No work to do ; 
The mystic hydromel is spilt and 
staining 



The whole earth through : 
Most ineradicable stains for showing 

(Not interfused I) 
That brighter colours were the world's 
foregoing. 
Than shall be used. 
Harken, oh, oh harken ! ye shall harken 
surely 
For years and years. 
The noise beside you, dripping coldly, 
purely. 
Of spirits' tears! 
The yearning to a beautiful denied you. 

Shall strain your powers : 
Ideal sweetnesses shall over-glide you. 

Resumed from ours 1 
In all your music our pathetic minor 

Your ears shall cross ; 
And all good gifts shall mind you of 
diviner. 
With sense of loss I 
We shall be near you in your poet-lan- 
guors 
And wild extremes ; 
What time ye ve.v the desert with vain 
angers. 
Or mock with dreams. 
And when upon you, weary after roam- 
ing. 
Death's seal is put. 
By the foregone ye shall discern the 
coming, 
Through eyelids shut. 

Spirits of the trees. 

Hark ! the Eden trees are stirring. 
Slow and solemn in your hearing 1 
Oak and linden, palm and fir. 
Tamarisk and juniper. 
Each still throbbing in vibration 
Since that crowning of creation. 
When the God breath spake abroad. 
Let us make vian like to God / 
And the pine stood quivering 
As the awful word went by ; 
Like a vibrant music-string 
Stretched from noun tain -peak to sky 1 
And the platan did expand 
Slow and gradual, branch and head 
And the cedar's strong black shade 
Fluttered brokenly and grand ! 
Grove and wood were swept aslant 
In emotion jubilant. 



172 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



Voice of the savte, but softer. 
Which divine impulsion cleaves 
In dun movements to the leaves 
Dropt and lifted, Uropt and lifted 
In the sunlight greenly sifted, — 
In the sunlight and the moonlight 
Greenly sifted through the trees. 
Ever wave the Eden trees 
In the nightlight and the noonlight. 
With a ruffling of green branches 
Shaded olT to resonances ; 
Never stirred by rain or breeze 1 

Fare ye well, farewell ! 
The sylvan sounds, no longer audible. 

Expire at Eden's door ! 

Each footstep of your treading 
Treads out some murmur which ye 
heard before : 

Farewell ! the trees of Eden 

Ye shall hear nevermore. 

River Spirits. 

Hark ! the flow of the four rivers — 

Hark the flow ! 
How the silence round you shivers. 
While our voices through it go. 

Cold and clear. 

A softer z'oice. 
Think a little while ye hear. 

Of the banks 
Where tlie willows and the deer 
Crowd in intermingled ranks. 
As if :dl would drink at once 
Where the living water runs! 
Of the fishes' golden edges 
Flashing in and out the sedges : 
Of the swans on silver thrones. 
Floating down the winding streams 
With impassive eyes turned shore- 
ward. 
And a chant of undertones, — 
And the lotos leaning forward 
To help them into dreams. 
Fare ye well, farewell ! 
fhe river-sounds, no longer audible. 
Expire at Eden's door ! 
Each footstep of your treading 
Treads out some murmur which ye 
heard bcfor.; : 
F irewell ! the streams of Eden, 
Ye shall hear nevermore. 



Bird-Spirit. 

I am the nearest nightingale 

That singeth in Eden after you ; 

And I am singing loud and true. 

And sweet, — i do not fail ! 

I sit upon a cypress bough, 

Close to the gate ; and I fling my 

song 
Over the gate and through the mail 
Of the warden angels marshalled 
strong, — 
Over the gate and after you ! 
And the warden angels let it pass, 1 1 
Because the poor brown bird, alas ! 

Suigs in the garden sweet and true. 
And I build my song of high pure 
notes. 
Note over note, height over height. 
Till I strike the arch of the Infinite ; 
And I bridge abysmal agonies 
With strong, clear calms of harmo- 
nies, — 
And something abides, and something 

floats. 
In the song which I sing after you : 
Fare ye well, farewell ! 
The creature-sounds, no longer audible. 
Expire at Eden's door 1 
Each footstep of your treading 
Treads out some cadence which ye 
heard before : 
Farewell 1 the birds of Eden 
Ye shall hear nevermore. 

Flower- spirits. 

We linger, we linger. 

The last of the throng I 
Like the tones of a singer 

Who loves his own song 
We are spirit-aromas 

Of blossom and bloom : 
We call your thoughts home as 

Ye breathe our perfume ; 
To the amaranth's splendor 

Afire on the slopes ; 
To the lily-bells tender. 

And grey heliotropes ! 
To the poppy -plains keeping 

Such dream -breath and blee 
That the angels there stepping 

Grew whiter to see ! 
To the nook, set with moly, 

Ye jested one day in, 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



173 



Till your smile waxed too holy 

And left your lips praying I 
To the rose in the bower-place. 

That dripped o'er you sleeping ; 
To the asphodel flower-place, 
Ye walked ankle deep in ! 
We pluck at your raiment. 

We stroke down your hair. 
We faint in our lament 
And pine into air. 

Fare ye well, farewell ! 
The Eden scents, no longer sensible. 
Expire at Eden's door ! 
Each footstep of your treading 
Treads out some fragrance which ye 
knew before : 

Farewell ! the flowers of Eden, 
Ye shall smell nevermore. 

There is silence. Adam and EvE^_y 
on, and never look back. Only a 
colossal shadow, as of the dark An- 
gel passing quickly, is cast upon 
the sword-glare. 



SCENES- rA^ extremity of the Sword- 
glare. 

Adam.. Pausing a moment on this 
outer edge 

Where the supernal sword-glare cuts in 
light 

The dark exterior desert, — hast thou 
strength, 

Beloved, to look behind us to the gate 1 
Eve. Have I not strength to look up 

to thy face ? 
Adam. We need to be strong : yon 
spectacle of cloud 

Which seals the gate up to the final 
doom. 

Is God's seal manifest. There seem to 
lie 

A hundred thunders in it, dark and 
dead : 

The unmolten lightnings vein it motion- 
less ; 

And outward from its depth, the self- 
moved sword 

Swings slow its awful gnomon of red 
fire [slow. 

From side to side, — in pendulous horror 



Across the stagnant, ghastly glare 

thrown flat 
On the intermediate ground from that 

to this, 
The angelic hosts, the archangelic 

pomps. 
Thrones, dominations, princedoms, rank 

on rank. 
Rising sublimely to the feet of God, 
On either side and overhead the gate. 
Show like a glittering and sustained 

smoke 
Drawn to an apex. That their faces 

shine 
Betwixt the solemn claspings of their 

wings 
Clasped high to a silver point above their 

heads, — 
We only guess from hence and not dis- 
cern. 
Eve. Though we were near enough 
to see them shine. 
The shadow on thy face were awfuller, 
To me, at least,— to me — than all their 
light. 
Adam. What is this. Eve ? thou 
droppest heavily 
In a heap earthward : and thy body 

heaves 
Under the golden floodings of thy hair ! 
Eve. O Adam, Adam ! by that name 
of Eve — 
Thine Eve, thy life — which suits me 

little now. 
Seeing that I now confess myself thy 

death 
And thine undoer, as the snake was 

mine, — 
I do adjure thee, put me straight away. 
Together with my name. Sweet, pun- 
ish me ! 
O Love, be just 1 and ere we pass be- 
yond 
The light cast outward by the fiery 
sword, ' •' 

Into the dark, which earth must be to 

us, 
Bruise my- head with thy foot.— -as the 

curse said 
My see4 shall be the first tempter's ; 

strike with curse. 
As God strudk in the garden [ and as 
'He, [wrath, 

Being satisfied with justice and with 



174 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



Did roll His thunder gentler at the 

close, — 
Thou, peradventure, may'st at last re- 
coil 
To some soft need of mercy. Strike, my 

lord ! 
/, also, after tempting, writhe on the 

ground ; 
And I would feed on ashes from thy 

hand. 
As suits me, O my tempted . 

Adam. My beloved. 

Mine Eve and life — I have no other 

name 
For thee or for the sun than what ye 

are. 
My utter life and light I If we have 

fallen. 
It is that we have sinned, — we : God is 

just ; 
And since His curse doth comprehend us 

both, 
It must be that His balance holds the 

weights 
Of first and last sin on a level. What ! 
Shall I who had not virtue to stand 

straight 
Among the hills of Eden, here assume 
To mend the justice of the perfect God, 
By piling up a curse upon His curse. 
Against thee — thee — 

Eve. For so, perchance, thy God 

Might take thee into grace for scorning 

me ; 
Thy wrath against the sinner giving 

proof 
Of inward abrogation of the sin ! 
And also the blessed angels might come 

down 
And walk with thee as erst, — I think 

they would, — 
Because I was not near to make them 

sad. 
Or soil the rustling of their innocence. 
Adam. They know me. I am deep- 
est in the guilt 
Iflastinthe transgression. 
Eve. Thou ! 

Adam. If God 

Who gave the right and joyaunce of the 

world 
Both unto thee and me, — gave thee to 

me, [worst, 

The best gift last ; the last sin was the 



Which sinned against more comple- 
ment of gifts 

And grace of giving. God I I render 
back 

Strong benediction and perpetual praise 

From mortal feeble lips, (as incense- 
smoke, 

Out of a little censer, may fill heaven,) 

That Thou, in striking my benumbed 
hands 

And forcing them to drop all other 
boons 

Of beauty and dominion and delight, — .v 

Hast left this well-beloved Eve — this 
life 

Within life — this best gift between their 
palms. 

In gracious compensation I 

Eve. Is it thy voice ? 

Or some saluting angel's — calling home 

My feet into the garden ? 

Adatn. O my God ! 

I, standing here between the glory and 
dark, — 

The glory of thy wrath projected forth 

From Eden's wall ; the dark of our dis- 
tress 

Which settles a step off in that drear 
world — 

Lift up to Thee the hands from whence 
hath fallen 

Only creation's sceptre, — thanking Thee 

That rather Thou hast cast me out with 
her 

Than left me lorn of her in Paradise ; 

With angel looks and angel songs 
around 

To show the absence of her eyes and 
voice. 

And make .society full desertness. 

Without her use in comfort ! 

Eve. Where is loss ? 

Am I in Eden ? can another speak 

Mine own love's tongue? 

Adam. Because with her, I stand 

Upright, as far as can be in this fall. 

And look away from heaven which doth 
accuse. 

And look away from earth which doth 
convict, 

Into her face ; and crown my dis- 
crowned brow [her 

Out of her love ; and put the thought of 

Around me, for an Eden full of birds ; 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



17s 



And lift her body up — thus— to my 

heart ; 
And with my lips upon her lips, — thus, 

thus,— 
Do quicken and subUmate my mortal 

breath 
Which cannot climb against the grave's 

steep sides 
But overtops this grief I 

Eve. I am renewed : 

My eyes grow with the light which is 

in thine ; 
The silence of my heart is full of sound. 
Hold me up— so ! Because I compre- 
hend 
This human love, I shall not be afraid 
Of any human death ; and yet because 
I know this strength of love, I seem to 

know 
Death's strength by that same sign. 

Kiss on my lips. 
To shut the door close on my rising 

soul,— 
Lest it pass outwards in astonishment 
And leave thee lonely. 

Adatn. Yet thou liest. Eye, 

Bent heavily on thyself across mine 

arm. 
Thy face flat to the sky. 

Eve. Ay I and the tears 

Running as it might seem, my life from 

n^e ; 
They run so fast and warm. Let me lie 

so. 
And weep so, — as if in a dream or 

prayer, 
Unfastening, clasp by clasp, the hard, 

tight thought 
Which clipped my heart and showed 

me evermore 
Loathed of thy justice as I loathe the 

snake, 
And as the pure ones loathe our sin. 

To-day, 
All day, beloved, as we fled across 
This desolating radiance cast by swords 
Not suns, my lips prayed soundless to 

myself. 
Striking against each other — O Lord 

God! 
('Twas so I prayed) I ask Thee by my 

sin. 
And by thy curse, and by thy blameless 

heavens. 



Make dreadful haste to hide me from 

thy face 
And from the face of my beloved here, 
For whom I am no helpmete, quick 

away 
Into the new dark mystery of death ! 
I will lie still there ; I will make no 

plaint ; 
I will not sigh, nor sob, nor speak a 

word. 
Nor struggle to come back beneath the 

sun 
Where peradventure I might sin anew 
Against thy mercy and his pleasure. 

Death, 
Oh, death, whate'er it be, is good enough 
For such as I am.— While for Adam 

here 
No voice shall say again, in heaven or 

earth. 
It is not good for hhn to be alone. 
Adam. And was it good for such a 

prayer to pass. 
My unkind Eve, betwixt our mutual 

lives? 
If I am exiled, must I be bereaved ? 
Eve. 'Twas an ill prayer : it shall be 

prayed no more ; 
And God did use it like a foolishness, 
Giving no answer. Now my heart has 

grown 
Too high and strong for such a foolish 

prayer : 
Love makes it strong : and since I was 

the first 
In the transgression, with a steady foot 
I will be first to tread from this sword- 
glare 
Into the outer darkness of the waste,— 
And thus I do it. 

Adam. Thus I follow thee, 

As erewhile in the sin.— What sounds 1 

what sounds 1 
I feel a music which comes straight from 

Heaven, • 

As tender as a watering dew. 

Eve. «. I think 

That angeLs— not those guarding Para- 
dise, — 
But the love-angels who came erst to us. 
And when we said ' God,' fainted una- 
wares - 
Back from our mortal presence unto 

God, 



176 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



(As if he drew them inward in a breath) 
His name being heard of them,— 1 thmk 

that they 
With sliding voices lean from heavenly 

towers, 
Invisible but gracioas. Hark — how 

soft 1 

CHORUS OF INVISIBLE ANGELS. 

(Faint and tender.) 
Mortal man and woman, 

Go upon your travel ! 
Heaven assist the human 

Smoothly to imravel 
All that web of pain 

Wherein ye are holden. 
Do yc know our voices 

Chanting down the golden? 
Do ye guess our choice is, 

Being unbeholden. 
To be barkened by you, yet again ? 
This pure door of opal, 

God hath shut between us ; 
Us, his shining people. 

You who once have seen us, 
And are blinded new 1 

Yet across the doorway. 
Past the silence reaching. 

Farewells evermore may, 
Blessing in the teaching. 

Glide from us to you. 

First semichorus. 

Think how erst your Eden, 

Day on day succeeding. 

With our presence glowed. 
We came as if the Heavens were bowed 

To a milder music rare ! 
Ye saw us in our solemn treading. 

Treading down the steps of cloud ; 

While our wings outspreading 

Double calms of whiteness. 

Dropped superfluous brightness 

Down from stair to stair. 

Second semichorus. 

Oft, abrupt though tender. 
While ye gazed on space. 
We flashed our angel-splendor 
In either human face ! 
With mystic lilies in our hands. 
From the atmospheric bands 
Breaking with a sudden grace, 



We took you unaware ! 
While our feet struck glories 

Outward, smooth and fair. 
Which we stood on floorwise, 

Platformed in mid air. 

First semichorus. 

Or oft, when Heaven-descended, 
Stood we in your wondering sight 

In a mute apocalypse 1 

With dumb vibrations on our lips 
From hosannas ended ; 
And grand half- van ishings 
Of the empyreal things 

Within our eyes belated I 
Till the heavenly Infinite 
Falling off from the Created, 
Left our inward contemplation 
Opened into ministration. 

Chorus. 

Then upon our axle turning 
Of great joy to sympathy. 

We sang out the morning 

Broadening up the sky. J 

Or we drew | 

Our music through i) 

The noontide's hush and heat and.l| 
shine. 

Informed with our intense Divine 

Interrupted .vital notes 

Palpitating hither, thither. 

Burning out into the aether, j 

Sensible like fiery motes. 

Or, whenever twilight drifted 
Through the cedar masses. 
The globed sun we lifted. 

Trailing purple, trailing gold 
Out between the passes 

Of the mountains manifold. 
To anthems slowly sung ! 

Whde he, aweary, half in swoon. 

For joy to hear our climbing tune 

Transpierce the stars' concentric 
rings,-— 

The burden of his glory flung 

In broken lights upon our wings. 

\^TTte Chant dies away confusedly, 
and Lucifer appears. 

Lucifer. Now riiay all fruits be pleas- 
ant to thy lips 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



«77 



Beautiful Eve I The times have some- 
what changed 

Since thou and 1 had talk beneath a 
tree ; 

Albeit ye are not gods yet. 
Eve Adam I hold 

My right hand strongly. It is Lucifer — 

And we have love to lose. 

Adam. V the name of God, 

Go apart from us, O thou Lucifer ! 

And leave us to the desert thou hast 
made 

Out of thy treason. Bring no serpent- 
slime 

Athwart this path kept holy to our tears. 

Or we may curse thee with their bitter- 
ness. 
Lucifer. Curse freely 1 curses thick- 
en. Why, this Eve 

Who thought me once part worthy of 
her ear,' 

And somewhat wiser than the other 
beasts, — 

Drawing together her large globes of 
eyes, 

The light of which is throbbing in and 
out 

Their steadfast continuity of gaze, — 

Knots her fair eyebrows in so hard a 
knot. 

And, down from her white heights of 
womanhood. 

Looks on me so amazed, — I scarce 
should fear 

To wager such an apple as she plucked. 

Against one riper from the tree of life. 

That she could curse too — as a woman 
may — 

Smooth in the vowels. 
Eve. So — speak wickedly 1 

I like it best so. Let thy words be 
wounds, — 

For, so, 1 shall not fear thy power to 
hurt : 

Trench on the forms of good by open 
ill — 

For, so, I shall wax strong and grand 
with scorn ; 

Scorning myself for ever trusting thee 

As far as thinking, ere a snake ate dust. 

He could speak wisdom. 
Lucifer. Our new gods, it seems 

Deal more in thunders than in courte- 
sies : 



And, sooth, mine own Olympus, which 

anon 
I shall build up to loud-voiced imagery 
From all the wandering visions of th« 

world. 
May show worse railing than our lady 

Eve 
Pours o'er the rounding of her argent 

arm. 
But why should this be ? Adam par- 
doned Eve. 
Adam. Adam loved Eve. Jehovah 

pardoned both ! 
Eve. Adam forgave Eve — because 

loving Eve. 
Lucifer. So, well. Yet Adam was 

undone of Eve, 
As both were by the snake. Therefore 

forgive. 
In like wise, fellow temptress, the poor 

snake — 
Who stung there, not so poorly ! 

\^Asid€. 
Eve. Hold thy wrath. 

Beloved Adam 1 let me answer him ; 
For this time he speaks truth, which we 

should hear. 
And asks for mercy, which I most should 

grant. 
In like wise, as he tells us — in like 

wise ! 
And therefore I thee pardon, Lucifer, 
As freely as the streams of Eden flowed 
When we were happy by them. So 

depart ; 
Leave us to walk the remnant of our 

time 
Out mildly in the desert. Do not seek 
To harm us any more or scoff at us 
Or ere the dust be laid upon our face 
To find there the communion of the 

dust 
And issue of the dust. — Go. 

Adam. At once, go, 

Lucifer. Forgive I and go ! Ye im- 
ages of clay. 
Shrunk somewhat in the mould, — what 

jest is this ? 
What words are these to use ? By what 

a thought 
Conceive ye of me ? Yesterday — a 

snake ! 
To-day, what ? 

Adam. A strong spirit. 



,78 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



Eve. A sad spirit. 

Adam, Perhaps a fallen angel. — 

Who shall say ? 
Lucifer. Who told thee, Adam ? 
Adam. Thou ! The prodigy 

Of thy vast brows and melancholy eyes 
Which comprehend the heights of some 

great fall. 
I think that thou hast one day worn a 

crown 
Under the eyes of God. 

Lucifer. And why of God ? 

Adam. It were no crown else 1 
Verily, I think 
Thou'rt fallen far. I had not yesterday 
Said it so surely ; but I know to-day 
Grief by grief, sin by sin. 
Lucifer. A crown by a crown. 

Adam. Ay, mock me ! qqw I know 
more than I knew. 
Now I know thou art fallen below hope 
Of final re-ascent. 

Lucifer. Because ? 

Adam. Because 

A spirit who expected to see God, 
Though at the last point of a^ million 

years, 
Could dare no mockery of a ruined man 
Such as this Adam. 

Lucifer. Who is high and boldr:— 

Be it said passing ! — of a good red clay 
Discovered on some top of Lebanon, 
Or haply of Aornus, beyond sweep 
Of the black eagle's wing 1 A furlong 

lower 
Had made a meeker king for Eden. 

Soh! _ 
Is it not possible, by sin and grief 
(To give the things your names) that 

spirits should rise 
Instead of falling ? 

Adam. Most impossible. 

The Highest being the Holy and the 

Glad, 
Whoever rises must approach delight 
And sanctity in the act. 

Lucifer. Ha, my clay king ! 

Thou wilt not rule by wisciom very 

long 
The after generations. Earth, me- 

thinks, 
Will disinherit thy philosophy 
For a new doctrine suited to thine 
heirs ; 



And class these present dogmas with the 
rest 

Of the old-world traditions — Eden fruits: 

And Saurian fossils. 

Ez'e. Speak no more with him. 

Beloved ! it is not good to speak with 
him. 

Go from us, Lucifer, and speak no 
more : 

We have no pardon which thou dost 
not scorn, 

Nor any bliss, thou seest, for coveting. 

Nor innocence for staining. Being be- 
reft. 

We would be alone. — Go. 
Lucifer. Ah I ye talk the same. 

All of you— spirits and clay— go, and 
depart I 

In Heaven they said so ; and at Eden's 
gate, — 

And here, reiterant, in the wilderness I 

None saith. Stay with me, for thy face 
is fair I 

None s^ith, Stay with me, for thy voice 
is sweet 1 

And yet I was not fashioned out of clay. 

Look on me, woman 1 Am I beauti- 
ful ? 
Eve. Thou hast a glorious darkness. 
Lucifer. Nothing more Y 

Eve. I think no more. 
Lucifer. False Heart — thou thinkest 
more ! 

Thou canst not choose but think, as I 
praise God, 

Unwillingly but fully, that I stand 

Most absolute in beauty. As yourselves 

Were fashioned very good at best, so 
ave 

Sprang very beauteous from the creant 
Word 

Which thrilled behind us — God Him- 
self being moved 

When that august work of a perfect 
shape. 

His dignities of sovran angel-hood 

Swept out into the imiverse, — divine 

With thundrous movements, earnct 
looks of gods, 

And silver-solemn clash of cymbal 
wings. 

Whereof was I in motion and in form, 

A part not poorest. And yet, — yet, 
perhaps, 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



179 



This beauty which I speak of, is not 

here. 
As God's voice is not here ; nor even my 

crown — 
I do not know. What is this thought or 

thing 
Which I call beauty ? is it thought or 

thing 1 
Is it a thought accepted for a thing ? 
Or both? or neither ?— a pretext?— a 

word ? 
Its meaning flatters in me like a flame 
Under my own breath : my perceptions 

reel 
For evermore around it, and fall off. 
As if it were too holy. 

Eye. Which it is. 

Adatn. The essence of all beauty I 

call love. 
The attribute, the evidence, and end. 
The consummation to the inward sense. 
Of beauty apprehended from without, 
1 still call love. As form, when color- 
less. 
Is nothing to the eye ; that pine tree 

there, . 

Without its black and green, being all a 

blank ; 
So, without love, is beauty undiscerned 
In man or angel. Angel 1 rather ask 
What love is in thee, what love moves 

to thee. 
And what collateral love moves on with 

thee ; 
Then shalt thou know if thou art beau- 
tiful- „ ^, 
Lucifer. Love ! what is love? Hose 

it. Beauty and love ! 
I darken to the image. Beauty— Love I 

{Ffe fades away, while a ItrM jnusic 
sounds. 

Adam. Thou art pale. Eve. 
Eve. The precipice of ill 

Down this colossal nature, dizzies me— 
And, hark 1 the starry harmony remote 
Seems measuring the lieights from 
whence he fell. 
Adam. Think that we have not 
fallen so. By the hope 
And aspiration, by the love and faith. 
We do exceed the stature of this angel. 
Eve. Happier we are than he is, by 
the death I 



Adam. Or rather, by the life of the 
Lord God ! 
How dim the angel grows, as if that blast 
Of music swept him back into the dark. 

[The music is stronger, gathering 
itself into uncertain articulation. 

Eve. It throbs in on u like a plain- 
tive heart. 

Pressing, with slow pulsations, vibrative 

Its gradual sweetness through the yield- 
ing air. 

To such expression as the stars may use. 

Most starry -sweet and strange ! With 
every note 

That grows more loud, the angel grows 
more dim. 

Receding in proportion to approach. 

Until he stands afar — a shade. 
Adam. Now, words. 

SONG OF THE MORNING STAR TO LUCIFER. 

He fades utterly away, and vanishes, 
as it proceeds . 

Mine orbed image sinks 

Back from thee, back from thee. 
As thou art fallen, methinks. 
Back from me, back from me. 
O my light bearer. 
Could another fairer 
Lack to thee, lack to thee? 
Ah, ah, Heosphoros! 
I loved thee with the fiery love of stars 
Who love by burning, and by loving 

move. 
Too near the throned Jehovah not to 
love. 

Ah, ah, Heosphoros 1 
Their brows flash fast on me from 
gliding cars, 

Pale-passioned f3"my loss. 
Ah, ah, Heosphoros 1 

Mine orbed heats drop cold 

Down fcom thee, down from thee, 
As fell thy grace of old 

Down from me, down from me, 
O my light-bearer. 
Is another fairer 
Won to thee, won to thee ? 
Ah, ah, Heosphoros, 
Great love preceded loss. 



iSo 



A DRAMA OF EXILE.. 



Known to thee, known to thee. 
Ah, ah ! 
Thou, breathing thy communicable 
grace 
Of Hfe into my light. 
Mine astral faces, from thine angel face, 

Hast inly fed. 
And flooded me with radiance over- 
much 
From thy pure height. 
Ah, ah ! 
Thou, with calm, floating pinions both 
ways spread. 
Erect, irradiated. 
Didst sting my wheel of glory 
On, on before thee 
Along the Godlight by a quickening 
touch ! 

Ha, ha I 
Around, around the firmamcntal ocean 
1 swam expanding with delirious fire 1 
Around, around, around, in blind desire 
To be drawn upward to the Infinite — 
Ha, ha ! 

Until, the motion flinging out the mo- 
tion 
To a keen whirl of passion and avidity, 
To a blind whirl of languor and delight, 
I wound in girant orbits smooth and 
white 
With that intense rapidity ! 
Around, around, 
I wound and interwound. 
While all the cyclic heavens about me 

spun ! 
Stars, planets, suns, and moons dilated 

broad. 
Then flashed together into a single sun. 

And wound, and wound in one ; 
And as they wound I wound, — around, 

around. 
In a great fire I almost took for God ! 
Ha, ha, Heosphoros ! 

Thine angel glory sinks 

Down from me, down from mc — 
My beauty falls, methinks, 

Down from thee, down from thee ! 
O my light-bearer, 
O my path-preparer. 
Gone from me, gone from me ! 
Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! 
I cannot kindle underneath the brow 



Of this new angel here, who is not 

Thou : 
All things are altered since that time 

•igo.— 
And if I shine at eve, I shall not know — 

I am strange — I am slow ! 

Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! 
Henceforward, human eyes of lovers be 
The only sweetest sight that I shall see. 
With tears between the looks raised up 

to me. 

Ah, ah I 
When, having wept all night, at break 

of day 
Above the folded hills they shall survey 
My light, a little trembling, in the grey. 

Ah, ah ! 
And gazing on me, such shall compre- 
hend. 
Through all my piteous pomp at morn 

or even. 
And melancholy leaning out of Heaven, 
That love, their own divine, may change 

or end. 

That love may close in loss * 
Ah, ah, Heosphoros ! 



SCENE— ^arMrr on. A -luild Oj'>,'n 
country seen vaguely in the ap- 
proaching night. 

Adam. How doth the wide and mel- 
ancholy earth 
Gather her hills around us, grey and 

ghast. 
And stare with blank significance of loss 
Right in our faces ! Is the wind up ? 
Eve. Nay. 

Adam. And yet the cedars and the 
junipers 
Rock slowly through the mist, without 

a sound ; 
And shapes which have no certainty of 

shape 
Drift duskly in and out between the 

pines. 
And loom along the edges of the hills. 
And lie flat, curdling in the open 

ground — 
Shadows without a body, which con- 
tract 
And lengthen as we gaze on them. 
£:ve. O Life 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



Which is not man's nor angel's ! What 
IS this ? 
Adam. No cause for fear. The cir- 
cle of God's life 

Contains all life beside. 

Eve. I think the earth 

la crazed with curse, and wanders from 
the sense 

Of those first laws affixed to form and 
space 

Or ever she knew sin 1 

Adarn. We will not fear : 

We were brave sinning. 
Eve. Yea, I plucked the fruit 

With eyes upturned to Heaven and see- 
ing there 

Our god-thrones, as the tempter said — 
not God. 

My heart, which beat then, sinks. The 
sun has sunk 

Out of sight with our Eden. 

Adam. Night is near. 

Eve. And God's curse nearest. Let 
us travel back 

And stand within the sword-glare till we 
die ; 

Believing it is better to meet death 

Than suffer desolation. 

Adam. Nay, beloved 1 

We must not pluck death from the Ma- 
ker's hand. 

As erst we plucked the apple : we must 
wait 

Until He gives death as He gave life ; 

Nor murmur faintly o'er the primal gift. 

Because we spoilt its sweetness with our 
sin. 
Eve. Ah, ah ! Dost thou discern 

what I behold ? 
Adam. I see all. How the spirits in 
thine eyes 

From their dilated orbits bound before 

To meet the spectral Dread ! 

Eve. I am afraid — 

Ah, ah ! The twilightbristles wild with 
shapes 

Of intermittent motion, aspect vague 

And mystic bearings, which o'ercreep 
the earth. 

Keeping slow time with horrors in the 
blood. 

How near they reach . . . and far ! how 
gray they move — 

Treading upon darkness without feet. 



And fluttering on the darkness without 

wmgs ! 
Some run like dogs, with noses to the 

ground ; 
Some keep one path, like sheep ; some 

rock like t^ees. 
Some glide like a fallen leaf; and some 

flow on 
Copious as rivers. 

Adam. Some spring up like fire — 
And some coil . . . 

Eve. Ah, ah ! Dost thou pause to say 
Like what ? — coil like the serpent when 

he fell 
From all the emerald splendor of his 

height 
And writhed, — and could not climb 

against the curse. 
Not a ring's length. I am afraid — 

afraid — 
I think it is God's will to make me 

afraid. 
Permitting these to haunt us in the 

place 
Of His beloved angels — gone from us 
Because we are not pure. Dear Pity of 

God, 
That didst permit the angels to go home 
And live no more with us who are not 

pure ; 
Save us too from a loathly company — 
Almost as loathly in our eyes, perhaps. 
As we are in tlie purest ! Pity us — 
Us too ! nor shut us in the dark, away 
From verity and from stability. 
Or what we name such through the pre- 
cedence 
Of earth's adjusted uses, — leave us not 
To doubt betwixt our senses and our 

souls. 
Which are the most distraught and full 

of pain 
And weak of apprehension. 

Adavt. Courage, sweet ! 

The mystic shapes ebb back from us, 

and drop 
With slow eoncentric movement, each 

on each, — 
Expressing wider spaces, and collapsed 
In lines more definite for imagery 
And clearer for relation ; till the throng 
Of shapeless spectra merge into a few 
Distinguishable phantasms vague and 

grand. 



tSa 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



Whi<^ sweep out and around us vastily, 
And hold us in a circle and a calm. 
Eve. Strange phantasms of pale 
shadow 1 there are twelve. 
Thou who didst name all lives, hast 
names for these ? 
Adam. Methinks this is the zodiac 
of the earth, 
Which rounds us with its visionary 

dread. 
Responding with twelve shadowy signs 

of earth, 
In fantasque apposition and approach, 
To those celestial, constellated twelve 
Which palpitate adown the silent nights 
Under the pressure of the hand of God 
Stretched wide in benediction. At this 

hour. 
Not a star pricketh the flat gloom of 

heaven 1 
But, girdling close our nether wilder- 
ness, 
The zodiac-figures of the earth loom 

slow, 

Drawn out, as suiteth with the place and 

time. 
In twelve colossal shades instead of stars. 
Through which the ecliptic line of mys- 
tery 
Strikes bleakly with an unrelenting 

scope. 
Foreshowing life and d«=\th. 

Eve. By dream or sense. 

Do we see this ? 

Adam. Our spirits have climbed high 
By reason of the passion of our grief, 
And from the top of sense, looked over 

sense, 
To the significance and heart of things 
Rather than things themselves. 

Eve. And the dim twelve . . . 

Adam. Are dim exponents of the 
creature-life 
As earth contains it. Gaze on them, 

beloved ! 
By stricter apprehension of the sight. 
Suggestions of the creatures shall as- 
suage 
Thy ttrror of the shadows : — what is 

known 
Subduing the unknown and taming it 
From all prodigious dread. That phan- 
tasm, there. 
Presents a lion, — albeit twenty times 



As large as any lion — with a roar 
Set soundless in his vibratory jaws. 
And a strange horror stirring in his 

mane ! 
And, there, a pendulous shadow seems 

to weigh — 
Good against ill, perchance ; and there, 

a crab 
Puts coldly out its gradual shadow-claws. 
Like a slow blot that spreads, — till all 

the ground. 
Crawled over by it, seems to crawl it- 
self ; 
A bull stands horned here with gibbous 

glooms ; 
And a ram likewise : and a scorpion 

writhes 
Its tail in ghastly slime and stings the 

dark ! 
This way a goat leaps with wild blank 

of beard ; 
And here fantastic fishes duskly float. 
Using the calm for waters, while their 

fins 
Throb out slow rhythms along the 

shallow air I 

While images more human 

Ez>e How he stands, 

That phantaem of a man — who is not 

thou .' 
Two phantasms of two men. 

Adam. One that sustains, 

And one that strives I — resuming, so, the 

ends 
Of manhood's curse of labor.* Dost 

thou see 
That phantasm of a woman? — 

Eve. I have seen — 

But look off" to those small humanities,! 
Which draw me tenderly across my 

fear, — 
Lesser and fainter than my womanhood. 
Or yet thy manhood — with strange in- 
nocence 



• Adam recocnizps In Aquarius, the wntcir- 
beaver and Sn.gittarius, the archer, distiiirt typrs 
of the man beailni,' and the man combating — 
the passive and active forma of lninian labor. 
F hope that the prececMni? zodiacal RiK"" — 
transferred to the earthly shadow and repre- 
sentative puri>n»p— of Aries, Taunis, Cancer, 
Leo, Libra, Seorpio. CapHcornns, and ri«ces, 
are stifficlently obvions to the reader. 

t Her maternal Instinct Is excitsd by Oemini. 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



183 



Set in the misty lines of head and hand 
They lean together ! I would gaze on 

them 
Longer and longer, till my watching 

eyes, 
As the stars do in watching anything, 
Should light them forward from their 

outline vague 
To clear configuration — 

Tivo Spirits, of organic and inor- 
ganic nature, arise from the ground. 

But what Shapes 
Rise up between us in the open space. 
And thrust me into horror back from 

hope? 
Adam. Colossal Shapes— twin sovran 

images. 
With a disconsolate, blank majesty 
Set in their wondrous faces ! — with no 
i look. 

And yet an aspect — a significance 
Of individual life and passionate ends. 
Which overcomes us gazing. 

O bleak sound ! 
lO shadow of sound, O phantasm of thin 
' sound ! 
How it comes, wheeling as the pale 

moth wheels. 
Wheeling and wheeling In continuous 

wail. 
Around the cyclic zodiac ; and gains 

force. 
And gathers, settling coldly like a 

moth. 
On the wan faces of these images 
We see before us ; whereby modified 
It draws a straight line to articulate 

song 
From out that spiral falntness of la- 
ment — 
jlnd, by one voice, expresses many 

griefs. 

First Spirit. 
I am the spirit of the harmless earth ; 
God spake me softly out among the 
stars. 
As softly as a blessing of much worth, 
Aiid then. His smile did follow una- 
wares. 
That all things fashioned so for use and 
duty 



Might shine anointed with His chrism 
of beauty — 

Yet I wail ! 
I drave on with the worlds exultlngly. 
Obliquely down the Godllght's grad- 
ual fall- 
Individual aspect and complexity 

Of gyratory orb and interval 
Lost in the fluent motion of delight 
Toward the high ends of Being beyond 
sight- 
Yet I wail ! 

Second Spirit. 
I am the Spirit of the harmless beasts. 
Of flying things, and creeping things, 
and swimming ; 
Of all the lives, erst set at silent feasts. 
That found the love-kiss on the gob- 
let brimming, 
And tasted, in each drop within the 

measure 
The sweetest pleasure of their Lord's 
good pleasure — 
Yet I wail ! 
What a full hum of life around His 
lips. 
Bore witness to the fulness of crea- 
tion ! 
How all the grand words were full-la- 
den ships ; 
Each sailing onward from enuncia- 
tion. 
To separate existence,— and each bear- 
ing 
The creature's power of joying, hoping, 
fearing ! 

Yet I wail ! 
Eve. They wail, beloved ! they 
speak of glory and God, 
And they wail— wail. That burden of 

the song 
Drops from It like its fruit, and heavily 

falls 
Into the lap of silence ! 
Adam. Hark, again ! 

First Spirit, 
I was so beautiful, so beautiful. 

My joy stood up within me bold to 
add 
A word to God's, and when His work 
was full. 



t84 



A DRAMA iF EXILE, 



To 'very good,' responded very 
glad ! ' 
Filtered through roses, did the light en- 
close me ; 
And bunches of the grape swam blue 
across me — 

Yet I wail I 

Second Spirit. 
I bounded with my panthers ! I re- 
joiced 
In my young tumbling lions rolled 
together ! 
My stag — the river at his fetlocks — 
poised. 
Then dipped his antlers through the 
golden weather 
In the same ripple which the alligator 
Left in his joyous troubling of the water ! 
Yet I wail I 

First Spirit. 
O my deep waters, cataract and flood. 
What wordless triumph did your voices 
render ! 
O mountain -summits, where the angels 
stood 
And shook from head and wing thick 
dews of splendor ; 
How with a holy quiet, did your 

Earthy 
Accept that Heavenly— knowing ye 
were worthy ! 

Yet I wail ! 

Second Spirit. 
O my wild wood dogs, with your listen- 
ing eyes ! 
My horses — my ground eagles, for 
swift fleeing ! 
My birds, with viewless wings of har- 
monies, 
My calm cold fishes of a silver being. 
How happy were ye, living and possess- 
ing, 

fair half-souls capacious of full bless- 

mg. 

Yet I wail ! 

First spirit. 

1 wail. I wail ! Now hear my charge 

to-day. 
Thou man, thou woman, marked as 
the misdoers 



By God's sword at your backs 1 I lent 
my clay 
To make your bodies, which had 
grown more flowers : 
And now. in change for what I lent, ye 

give me 
The thorn to vex, the tempest-fire to 
cleave me — 

And I wail I 

Second Spirit. 
I wail, I wail ! Behold ye that I fasten 
My sorrow's fang upon your souls 
dishonored ? 
Accursed transgressors! down the steep 

ye hasten, — 
Your crown's weight on the world, to 

drag it downward 
Unto your ruin. Lo ! my lions, scenting 
The blood of wars, roar hoarse and un- 
relenting — 

And I wail 1 

First Spirit. 
I wail, I wail ! Do you hear that I wail ? 
I had no part in your transgression — 
none ! 
My rose on the bough did bud not pale — 

My rivers did not loiter in the sun. 
/ was obedient. Wherefore in my 

centre 
Do 1 thrill at this curse of death and 
winter ! — 

And I wail 1 

S'cond Spirit. 
I wail, I wail ! I wail in the assault 
Of undeserved perdition, sorely 
wounded ! 
My nightingales sang sweet without a 
fault. 
My gentle leopards innocently 
bounded ; 
IVe were obedient — what is this con- 
vulses 
Our blameltss life with pangs and fever 
pulses ? 

And I wail ! 
Eve. I choose God's thunder and His 
angels' swords 
To die by, Adam, rather than such 

words. 
Let us pass out and flee. 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



Adam. We cannot flee. 

This zodiac of the creatures' cruelty 
Curls round us, like a river cold and 

drear. 
And shuts us in, constraining us to hear. 

First spirit, 
I feel your steps, O wandering sinners, 
strike 
A sense of death to me, and undug 
graves ! 
The heart of earth, once calm, is trem- 
bling like 
The ragged foam along the ocean- 
waves : 
The restless earthquakes rock against 

each other ; 
The elements moan 'round me — ' Moth- 
er, mother' — 

And I wail ! 

Second Spirit. 
Your melancholy looks do pierce me 
through ; 
Corruption swathes the paleness of 
your beauty. 
Why have ye done this thing ? What 
did we do 
That we should fall from bliss as ye 
from d>ity ? 
Wild shriek the hawks, in waiting for 

their jesses. 
Fierce howl the wolves along the wilder- 
nesses — 

And I wail ! 
Adam. To thee, the Spirit of the 
harmless earth — 
To thee, the Spirit of earth's harmless | 

lives — 
Inferior creatures but still innocent — 
Be salutation from a guilty mouth 
Yet worthy of some audience and re- 
spect 
From you who are not guilty. If we 

have sinned, 
God hath rebuked us, who is over us. 
To give rebuke or death ; and if ye wail 
Because of any suffering from our sin. 
Ye who are under and not over us. 
Be satisfied with God, if not with us. 
And pass out from our presence in such 

peace 
As we have left you, to enjoy revenge 



Such as the Heavens have made you. 
Verily, 

There must be strife between us, large 
as sin. 
Eve. No strife, mine Adam I Let us 
not stand high 

Upon the wrong we did to reach dis- 
dain. 

Who rather should be humbler ever- 
more 

Since self-made sadder. Adam ! shall 
I speak — 

I who spake once to such a bitter end — 

Shall I speak humbly now, who once 
was proud ? 

I, schooled by sin to more humility 

Than thou hast, O mine Adam, O my 
king— 

My king, if not the world's ? 

Adam. Speak as thou wilt. 

Eve. Thus then — my hand in thine — 
.... Sweet, dreadful Spirits 1 

I pray you humbly in the name of God; 

Not to say of these tears, which are im- 
pure — 

Grant me such pardoning grace as can 
go forth 

From clean volitions toward a spotted 
will. 

From the wronged to the wronger ; this 
and no more ; 

I do not ask more. I am 'ware, indeed. 

That absolute pardon is impossible 

From you to me, by reason of my sin, — 

And that I cannot evermore, as once. 

With worthy acceptation of pure joy, 

I5ehold the trances of the holy hills 

Beneath the leaning stars ; or watch the 
vales 

Dew-pallid with their morning ec;tasy ; 

Or hear the winds make pastoral peace 
between 

Two grassy uplands, — and the river- 
wells 

Work out their bubbling mysteries 
under ground — 

And all the birds sing, till for joy of 
song. 

They lift their trembling wings as if to 
heave 

The too-much weight of music from 
their heart 

And float it up the aether ! I am 'war© 



t86 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



That these things I can no more com- 
prehend 
With a full organ into a full delight , 
The sense of beauty and of melody 
Being no more aided in me by the sense 
Of personal adjustment to those heights 
Of what I see well-formed or hear well- 
tuned. 
But rather coupled darkly and made 

ashamed 
By the percipiency of sin and fall 
In melancholy of humiliant thoughts. 
But, oh ! fair, dreadful Spirits — albeit 

this 
Your accusation must confront my soul. 
And your pathetic utterance and full 

gaze 
Must evermore subdue me ; be con- 
tent — 
Conquer me gently — as if pitying me, 
Not to say loving! let my tears fall 

thick 
As watering dews of Eden, unre- 

proached ; 
And when your tongues reprove me, 

make me smooth, 
Not ruffled — smooth and still with your 

reproof. 
And perad venture better while more sad. 
For look to it sweet Spirits — look well to 

it- 
It will not be amiss in you who kept 
The law of your own righteousness, and 

keep 
The right of your own griefs to mourn 

themselves, — 
To pity me twice fallen, — from that, and 

this. 
From joy of place, and also right of 

wail, 
' I wail ' being not for me — only ' I sin.' 
Look to it, O sweet Spirits ! — 

For was I not. 
At that last sunset seen in Paradise, 
When all the westering clouds flashed 

out in throngs 
Of sudden angel-faces, face by face, 
All hushed and solemn, as a thought of 

God 
Held them suspended, — was I not, that 

hour. 
The lady of the world, princess of life. 
Mistress of feast and favor? Could I 

touch 



A rose with my white hand, but it 

became 
Redder at once? Could I walk leis- 
urely 
Along our swarded garden, but the 

grass 
Tracked me yith greenness ? Could I 

stand aside 
A moment underneath a cornel-tree. 
But all the leaves did tremble as alive 
With songs of fifty birds who were made 

glad 
Because I stood there ? Could I turn to 

look 
With these twain eyes of mine, now 

weeping fast. 
Now good for only weeping — upon man. 
Angel, or beast, or bird, but each re- 
joiced 
Because I looked on him ? Alas, alas ! 
And is not this much wo, to cry 'alas !' 
Speaking of joy ? And is not this more 

shame. 
To have made the wo myself, from all 

that joy? 
To have stretched my hand, and plucked 

it from the tree. 
And chosen it for fruit ? Nay, is not 

this 
Still most despair, — to have halved that 

bitter fruit. 
And ruined, so, the sweetest friend I 

have. 
Turning the Greatest to mine enemy ? 
Ada?n. I will not hear thee speak 

so. Hearken, Spirits ! 
Our God, who is the enemy of none. 
But only of their sin, — hath set your 

hope 
And my hope, in a promise, on this 

Head. 
Show reverence, then, — and never 

bruise her more 
With unpermitted and extreme re- 
proach ; 
Lest, passionate in anguish, she fling 

down 
Beneath your trampling feet, God's gift 

to us. 
Of sovranty by reason and freewill ! 
Sinning against the province of the 

Soul 
To rule the soulless. Reverence hcf 

estate : 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



i8t 



And pass out from her presence with 
no words. 
Eve. O dearest Heart, have patience 
with my heart, 

O Spirits, have patience, 'stead of rev- 
erence. 

And let me speak : for, not being inno- 
cent. 

It httle doth become me to be proud ; 

And I am prescient by the very hope 

And promise set upon mc, that hence- 
forth 

Only my gentleness shall make me 
great, 

My humbleness exalt mc. Awful Spir- 
its, 

Be witness that I stand in your reproof 

But one sun's length off from my happi- 
ness — 

Happy, as I have said, to look aromid — 

Clear to look up ! — and now 1 I need 
not speak — 

Ye see me what I am ; ye scorn me so. 

Because ye see me what I have made 
myself 

From God's best making 1 Alas, — peace 
foregone, 

Love wronged, — and virtue forfeit, and 
tears wept 

Upon all, vainly ! Alas, me I alas. 

Who have undone myself from all that 
best. 

Fairest and sweetest, to this wretched- 
est, 

Saddest and most defiled — cast out, cast 
down — 

What word metes absolute loss? let ab- 
solute loss 

Suffice you for revenge. For /, who 
lived 

Beneath the wings of angels yesterday. 

Wander to-day beneath the roofless 
world ! 

/, reigning the earth's empress yester- 
day. 

Put off from me, to-day, your hate with 
prayers ! 

/, yesterday, who answered the Lord 
God. 

Composed and glad as singing-birds the 
sun, 

Might shriek now from our dismal des- 
ert, ' God,' 



And hear Him make reply, ' What \i 
thy need. 

Thou whom I cursed to-day ? ' 

Adam. Eve I 

Eve. I, at last, 

Who yesterday was helpmate and de- 
light _ 

Unto mine Adam, am to-day the grief 

And curse-mete for him ! And, so, pity 
us. 

Ye gentle Spirits, and pardon him and 
me. 

And let some tender peace, made of out 
pain. 

Grow up betwixt us, as a tree might 
grow 

With boughs on both sides. In the 
shade of which, 

When presently ye shall behold us 
dead, — 

For the poor sake of our humility. 

Breathe out your pardon on our breath- 
less lips. 

And drop your twilight dews against 
our brows ; 

And stroking with mild airs our harm- 
less hands 

Left empty of all fruit, perceive your 
love 

Distilling through your pity over us 

And suffer it, self-reconciled, to pass. 

Lucifer rises in the circle. 

Lucifer. Who talks here of a com- 
plement of grief? 

Of expiation wrought by loss and fall ? 

Of hate subduable to pity ? Eve ? 

Take counsel from thy counsellor the 
snake. 

And boast no more in grief, nor hope 
from pain. 

My docile Eve 1 I teach you to des- 
pond, 

Who taught you disobedience. Look 
around ; — 

Earth-spirits and phantasms hear yon 
talk unmoved. 

As if ye were red clay again and talked 1 

What are your words to them? yoi;r 
griefs to them ? 

Your deaths, mdeed, to them ? Did tKa 
hand pause 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



For iheir sake, in the plucking of the 

fruit, 
That they should pause ior yoii, in hat- 
ing you ; 
Or will your grief or death, as did your 

sin, 
Bring change upon their final doom 1 

Behold, 
Your grief is but your sin in the rebound. 
And cannot expiate for it. 

Adam. That is true. 

Lucifer. Ay, it is true. The clay- 
king testifies 
To the snake's counsel, — hear him ! — 
very true. 
Earth Spirits. I wail, I wail ! 
Lucifer. And certes, that is true. 
Ye wail, ye all wail. Peradventure 1 
Could wail among you. O thou uni- 
verse. 
That boldest sin and wo, — more room 
for wail 1 
Distant starry voice. Ah, ah, Heos- 

phoros I Heosphorus I 
AdajH. Mark Lucifer. He changes 

awfully. 
Eve. It seems as if he looked from 
grief to God 
A.nd could not see Him ; — wretched Lu- 
cifer 1 
Adam. How he stands — yet an an- 

g^l' . . 
Earth Spirits. AVe all wail 

Lucifer, [after a pause.) Dost thou 

remember, 

Adam, when the curse 

Took us in Eden? On a mountain- 
peak 

Half-sheathed in primal woods and glit- 
tering 

In spasms of awful sunshine at that hour 

A lion couched, — part raised upon his 
paws. 

With his calm, massive face turned full 
on thine. 

And his mane listening. When the 
ended curse 

I r.ft silence in the world, — right sud- 
denly 

1 le sprang up rampant and stood straight 
and stiff, 

As if the new reality of death 

Were dashed against his eyes, — and 
roared so fierce 



(Such thick carnivorous passion in his 

throat 
Tearing a passage through the wrath 

and fear) 
And roared so wild, and smote from all 

the hills 
Such fast, keen echoes crumbling down 

the vales 
Precipitately,— that the forest beasts. 
One after one, did mutter a response 
Of savage and of sorrowful complaint 
Which trailed along the gorges. Then, 

at once. 
He fell back, and rolled crashing from 

the height 
Into the dust of pines. 

Adavt. It might have been 

I heard the curse alone. 

Earth Spirits. I wail, I wail ! 

Lucifer. That lion is the type of 
what I am 1 
And as he fixed thee with his full-faced 

hate. 
And roared, O Adam — comprehending 

doom ; 
So, gazing on the face of the Unseen, 
I cry out here between the heavens and 

earth 
My conscience of this sin, this wo, this 

wrath. 
Which damn me to this depth 1 

Earth Si>irit<:- I wail, I wail I 

Eve. I wail O God I 
Lucifer. I Scorn you that ye wail, 
Who use your petty griefs for pedestals 
To stand on, beckoning pity from with- 
out. 
And deal in pathos of antithesis 
Of what ye were forsooth, and what ye 

are ; — 
I scorn you like an angel I Yet, one cry 
I, too, would drive up like a column 

erect. 
Marble to marble, from my heart to 

Heaven, 
A monument of anguish to transpierce 
And overtop your vapory complaints 
Expressed from feeble woes ! 

Earth Spirits. I wail, I wail ! 

Lucifer. For, O ye heavens, ye are 
my witnesses. 
That /, struck out fAjm nature in a blot. 
The outcast and the mildew of thing^ii 
good. 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



189 



The leper of angels, the excepted dust 
Under the common rain of daily gifts, — 
I the snake, I the tempter, I the cursed, — 
To whom the highest and the lowest 

alike 
Say, Go from us — we have no need of 

thee, — 
Was made by God like others. Good 

and fair. 
He did create me ! — ask Him, if not fair; 
Ask, if I caught not fair and silverly 
His blessing for chief angels on my head 
Until it grew there, a crown crystallized ! 
Ask, if He never called me by my 

name, 
Lucifer — kindly said as ' Gabriel '— - 
Lucifer — soft as ' Michael 1' While 

serene 
I, standing in the glory of the lamps. 
Answered 'my father,' innocent of 

shame 
And of the sense of thunder. Ha 1 ye 

think. 
White angels in your niches, — I repent. 
And would tread down my own offences 

back 
To service at the footstool 1 Thai's read 

wrong : 
I cry as the beast did, that I may cry — 
Expansive, not appealing I Fallen so 

deep 
Against the side of this prodigious pit, 
I cry — cry — dashing out the hands of 

wail 
On each side, to meet anguish every- 
where. 
And to attest it in the ecstasy 
And exaltation of a wo sustained 
Because provoked and chosen. 

Pass along 
Your wilderness, vain mortals I Puny 

griefs 
In transitory shapes, be henceforth 

dwarfed 
To your own conscience by the dread 

extremes 
Of what I am and have been. If ye 

have fallen, 
I» is a step's fall, — the whole ground 

beneath 
Strewn woolly soft with promise ; if ye 

have sinned, 
Your prayers tread high as angels I if ye 

have grieved. 



Ye are too mortal to be pitiable. 

The power to die disproves the right to 

grieve. 
Go to I ye call this ruin. I half-scorn 
The ill I did you I Were ye wronged 

by me. 
Hated and tempted and undone of mc» — 
Still, what's your hurt to mine of doing 

hurt. 
Of hating, tempting, and so ruining ? 
This sword's hilt is the sharpest, and 

cuts through 
The hand that wields it. 

Go — I curse you all. 
Hate one another — feebly — as ye can ; 
I would not certes cut you short in hate — 
Far be it from me I hate on as ye can i 
I breathe into your faces, spirits of earth. 
As wintry blast may breathe on wintry 

leaves 
And lifting up their brownness, show 

beneath 
The branches very bare. — Beseech yoU, 

spirits, give 
To Eve, who beggarly entreats your 

love 
For her and Adam when they shall be 

dead. 
An answer rather fitting to the sin 
Than to the sorrow — as the Heavens, I 

trow. 
For justice' sake gave theirs. 

I curse you both, 
Adam and Eve 1 Say grace as after 

meat. 
After my curses. May your tears fall 

hot 
On all the hissing scorns o' the creatures 

here, — 
And yet rejoice. Increase and multi- 
ply, 
Ye and your generations, in all plagues. 
Corruptions, melancholies, poverties. 
And hideous forms of life and fears of 

death ; 
The thought of death being alway emi- 
nent 
Immoveable and dreadful in your life, 
And deafly and dumbly insignificant 
Of any hope beyond, — as death itself. 
Whichever of you lieth dead the first. 
Shall seem to the survivor — yet rejoice ! 
My curse catch at you strongly, body 

and soul. 



A DRAMA OP EXILE. 



And He find no redemption— nor the 

wing 
Of seraph move your way— and yet re- 
joice I 
Rejoice,— because ye have not set in you 
This hate which shall pursue you — this 

fire-hate 
Which glares without, because it bums 

within — 
Which kills from ashes— this potential 

hate, 
Wherein I, angel, in antagonism 
To God and his reflex beatitudes, 
Moan ever in the central universe 
With the great wo of striving against 

Love — 
And gasp for space amid the infinite — 
And toss for rest amid the Desertness — 
Self-orphaned by my will, and self-elect 
To kingship of resistant agony 
Toward the Good round me— -hating 

good and love. 
And willing to hate good and to hate 

love. 
And willing to will on so evermore. 
Scorning the Past, and damning the To 

con'e — 
Go and rejoice I I curse you 1 

Lucifer vanishes. 

Earth Spirits. 

And we scorn you ! there's no pardon 

Which can lean to yon aright ! 
When your bodies take the guerdon 
Of the death-curse in our sight, 
Then the bee that hummeth lowest shall 
transcend you. 
Then ye shall not move an eyelid 
Though the stars look down your 
eyes ; 
And the earth which ye defiled. 
Shall expose you to the skies, — 
' Lo ! these kings of ours — who sought to 
comprehend you.' 

First Spirit. 

And the elements shall boldly 

All your dust to dust constrain ; 
Unresistedly and coldly 

I will smite you with my rain ! 
From the slowest of my frosts is no re- 
ceding^. 



Second Spirit. 

And my little worm, appointed 

To assume a royal part. 
He shall reign, crowned and anointed. 

O'er the noble human heart 1 
Give him counsel against losing of that 
Eden! 
Adam. Do ye scorn us ? Back your 

scorn 
Toward your faces gray and lorn, 
As the wind drives back the rain. 
Thus I drive with passion -strife ; 
I who stand beneath God's sun. 
Made like God, and, though undone. 
Not unmade for love and life. 
Lo ! yc utter threats in vain ! 
By my free will that chose sin. 
By mine agony within 
Round the passage of the fire ; 
By the pinings which disclose 
That my native soul is higher 

Than what it chose. 
We are yet too high, O spirits, for your 
disdain 
Eve. Nay, beloved ! if these be low. 
We confront them with no height ; 
We have stooped down to their level 
By infecting them with evil. 
And their scorn that meets our blow 

Scathes aright. 
Amen. Let it be so. 

Earth Spirits. 

We shall triumph— triumph greatly 
When ye lie beneath the sward 1 
There, our lily shall grow stately 
Though ye answer not a word — 
And with fragrance shall be scornful of 
your silence. 
While your throne ascending calmly 

We, m heirdom of your soul. 
Flash the river, lift the palm tree. 
The dilated ocean roll 
By the thoughts that throbbed within 
you — round the islands. 

Alp and torrent shall inherit 
Your significance of will : 
With the grandeur of your spirit 
Shall our broad .savannahs fill — 
In our winds, your exultations shall be 
springing. 
Even your parlance which inveiglts. 
By our rudeness shall be won : 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



191 



Hearts poetic in our eagles 
Shall beat up against the sun. 
And strike downward in articulate clear 
singing. 

Your bold speeches, our Behemoth 
With his thunderous jaw shall 
wield 1 
Your high fancies shall our Mammoth 
Breathe sublimely up the shield 
Of St. Michael at God's throne, who 
waits to speed him 1 
Till the heavens' smooth-grooved 
thunder 
Spinning back, shall leave them 
clear ; 
And the angels smiling wonder 

With dropt looks from sphere to 
sphere. 
Shall cry, ' Ho, ye heirs of Adam 1 ye 
exceed him ! ' 
Adam. Root out thine eyes, sweet, 
from the dreary ground. 
Beloved, we may be overcome by God. 
But not by these. 
Eve. By God, perhaps, in these. 

Adam. I think, not so. Had God 
foredoomed despair. 
He had not spoken hope. He may de- 
stroy 
Certes, but not deceive. 

Eve. Behold this rose 1 

I plucked it in our bower of Paradise 
This morning as I went forth ; and my 

heart 
Hath beat against its petals all the day. 
I thought it would be always red and 

full 
As when I plucked it. — Is it? — Ye may 

see 1 
I cast it down to you that ye may see. 
All of you ! — count the petals lost of 

it — 
And note the colors fainted 1 ye may 

see : 
And I am as it is, who yesterday 
Grew in the same place. O ye spirits 

of earth ! 
I almost, from my miserable heart. 
Could here upbraid you for your cruel 

heart, 
Which will not let me, down the slope 

of death. 
Draw any of your pity after m^ 



Or lie still in the quiet of your looks, 
As my flower, there, in mine. 

[A bleak wind, quickened ivifh indis- 
tinct human voices, spins around 
the earth-zodiac : and JlUing the 
circle with its presence, and then 
wailing off- into the east, carries 
the rose atvay with it. Eve falls 
upon her /ace. Adam stands erect. 
Adarn. So, verily. 

The last departs. 

Eve. So Memory follows Hope, 

And Life both. Love said to me, ' Do 
not die,' 

And I replied, ' O Love, I will not die. 

I exiled and I will not orphan Love.' 

But now it is no choice of mine to 
die— 

My heart throbs from me. 

Adam. Call it straightway back. 

Death's consummation crowns com- 
pleted life, 

Or comes too early. Hope being set 
on thee 

For others ; if for others then for thee, — 

For thee and me. 

[ The wind revolves from the east, and 
round again to the cast, per/uvied 
by the Eden-rose, and fidl of voices 
which sweep out into articulation 
as they pass. 

Let thy soul shake its leaves 

To feel the mystic wind— Hark I 

Eve. I hear life. 

Infant voices passing in the wind. 
O we live, O we live — 
And this life that we receive 
Is a warm thing and a new. 
Which we softly bud into 
From the heart and from the brain. 
Something strange that overmuch is 

Of the sound and of the sight. 
Flowing round in trickling touches. 

With a. sorrow and delight, — 
Yet is it all in vain ? 

Rock lis softly. 
Lest it be all in vain. 

Youthful voices passing, 
O we live, O we live — 
And this life that we achieve 



192 



A DRAMA OF EXILE.. 



Is a loud thing and a bold, 
Which with pulses manifold 
Strikes the heart out full and fain — 
Active doer, moblc liver. 

Strong to struggle, sure to conquer, 
Though the vessel's prow will quiver 

At the lifting of the anchor : 
Yet do we strive in vain 1 

Infant voices passing. 

Rock us softly. 
Lest it be all in vain. 

Poet voices passing. 
O we live, O we live — 
And this life that we conceive 
Is a clear thing and a fair. 
Which we set in crystal air 
That its beauty may be plain : 
With a breathing and a flooding 

Of the heaven-life on the whole, 
While we hear the forests budding 

To the music of the soul — 
Yet is it tuned in vain 1 



Infant voices passing. 
Lest it be all in vain. 



Rock us softly. 



Philosophic voices passing. 
O we live, O we live — 
And this life that we perceive. 
Is a great thing and a grave, 
Which for others' use we have, 
Duty-laden to remain. 
We are helpers, fellow-creatures. 

Of the right against the wrong. 
We are earnest -hearted teachers 

Of the truth which maketh strong- 
Yet do we teach in vain ? 



Infant voices passing. 
Lest it be all in vain. 



Rock us softly. 



Revel voices passing. 
O we live, O we live — 
And this life that we reprieve 
Is a low thing and a light. 
Which is jested out of sight. 
And made worthy of disdain ! 
Strike with bold electric laughter 

The high tops of things divine- 



Turn thy head, my brother, after, 

Le-it thy tears fall in my wine ;— 
For is all laughed in vain ? 

Infant voices passing. 

Rock us softly. 
Lest it be all in vain. 

Eve. I hear a sound of life — of life 

like ours — 
Of laughter and of wailing, — of grave 

speech. 
Of litde plaintive voices innocent, 
Of life in separate courses flowing out 
Like our four rivers to some outward 

main. 
I hear life— life ! 
Adam. And, so, thy cheeks have 

snatched 
Scarlet to paleness ; and thine eye drink 

fast 
Of glory from full cups ; and thy moist 

lips 
Seem trembling, both of them, with 

earnest doubts 
Whether to utter words or only smile. 
Eve. Shall I be mother of the com- 
ing life? 
Hear the steep generations, how they 

fall 
Adown the visionary stairs of Time, 
Like supernatural thunders — far yet 

near ; 
Sowing their fiery echoes through the 

hills. 
Am I a cloud to these — mother to these ^ 
Earth Spirits. And bringer of th» 

curse upon all these. 

Eve sinks down again- 



Poet voices passing. 
O we live, O we live — 
And this life that we conceive. 
Is a noble thing and high. 
Which we climb up loftily 
To view God without a stain : 
Till recoiling where the shade is. 

We retread our steps again. 
And descend the gloomy Hades 
To resume man's mortal pain. 
Shall it be climbed in vain ? 



A DRAMA OF EXILE, 



193 



In/ant voices passing. 
Lest it be all in vain. 



Rock us softly, 



Love voices passing. 
O we live, O we live — 
And this life we would retrieve. 
Is a faithful thing apart. 
Which we love in, heart to heart. 
Until one heart fitteth twain. 

* Wih thou be one with me ? ' 
' I will be one with thee I ' 

* Ha, ha ! — we love and live 1 ' 
Alas ! ye love and die ! 
Shriek — who shall reply ? 
For is it not loved in vain ? 

Infant voices passing. 

Though it be all in vain. 

Aged voices passing. 
O we live, O we live — 
And this life we would survive. 
Is a gloomy thing and brief, 
Which consummated in grief, 
Leaveth ashes for all gain. 
Is it not all in vain ? 

Infant voices passing. 



Rock us softly. 



Rock us softly. 



Though it be all in vain. 

Voices die away. 
Earth Spirits. And bringer of the 

curse upon all these. 
Eve. The voices of foreshown Hu- 
manity 
Die off ; — so let me die. 

Adatn. So let us die. 

When God's will soundeth the right 
hour of death. 
Earth Spirits. And bringer of the 

curse upon all these. 
Eve. O spirits ! by the gentleness 
ye use 
In winds at night, and floating clouds at 

noon. 
In gliding waters under lily leaves. 
In chirp of crickets, and the settling 

hush 
A bird makes in her nest with feet and 

wings, — 
Fulfil your natures now I 



Earth Spirits. 

Agreed ; allowed ! 
We gather out our natures like a cloud. 
And thus fulfil their lightnings 1 Thus, 
and thus ! 
Hearken. O hearken to us I 

First Spirit. 

As the storm-wind blows bleakly from 
the norland, 

As the snow-wind beats blindly on the 
moorland, 

As the simoon drives hot across the 
desert. 

As the thunder roars deep in the Un- 
measured, 

As the torrent tears the ocean-world to 
atoms, 

As the whirlpool grinds it fathoms below 
fathoms. 
Thus, — and thus I 

Second Spirit. 
As the yellow toad, that spits its poison 

chilly. 
As the tiger, in the jungle crouehing 

stilly. 
As the wild boar, with ragged tusks of 

anger. 
As the wolf-dog, with teeth of glittering 

clangour. 
As the vultures that scream against the 

thunder. 
As the owlets that sit and moan asunder. 
Thus, — and thus ! 
Eve. Adam 1 God ! 
Adam. Cruel, unrelenting Spirits I 
By the power in me of the sovran soul 
Whose thoughts keep pace yet with the 

angel's march, 
I charge you into silence — trample you 
Down to obedience. — I am king of you I 

Earth Spirits. 

Ha, ha 1 thou art king 1 

With a sin for a crown. 

And a soul undone : 

Thou, the antagonized. 

Tortured and agonized. 

Held in the ring 

Of the zodiac ! 

Now, king, beware! 

We are many and strong 

Whom thou standest among,- 



»94 



A DRAMA OP EXILE. 



And we pass on the air. 
And we stifle thee back. 
And we muhiply where 
Thou wouldst trample us down 
From rights of our own 
To an utter wrong — 
And, from under the feet of thy scorn, 
O forlorn I 
We shall spring up like com. 
And our stubble be strong. 
Adam. God, there is power in Thee ! 
I make appeal 
Unto thy kingship. 

Eve. There is pity in Thee, 

O sinned against, great God !^My seed, 

my seed. 
There is hope set on Thee — I cry to 

thee. 
Thou mystic seed that shalt be ! — leave 

us not 
In agony beyond what we can bear. 
Fallen m debasement below thunder- 
mark 
A mark for scorning — taunted and per- 

plext 
By all these creatures we ruled yester- 
day. 
Whom thou, Lord, rulestalway. O my 

seed, 
Through the tempestuous years that rain 

so thick 
Betwixt my ghostly vision and thy face, 
Let me have token I for my soul is 

bruised 
Before the serpent's head is. 

\_A vision of Christ appears in the 
tnidst of the zodiac, which pales be- 
fore the heavenly light. The Earth 
Spirits grow grayer and fainter. 

Christ. I am here! 

Adam. This is God ! — Curse us not, 

God, any more. 
Eve. But gazing so — so — with omni- 
fic eyes. 
Lift my soul upward till it touch thy 

feet ! 
(')r lift it only, — not to seem too proud,— 
To the low height of some good angel's 

feet— 
For such to tread on when ha walketh 

straight 
And thy lips praise him. 



I Christ. Spirits of the earth, 

I meet you with rebuke for the reproach 
And cruel and unmitigated blame 
Ye cast upon your masters. True, they 

have sinned ; 
And true their .sin is reckoned into loss 
For you the sinless. Yet, your inno- 
cence, 
Which of you praises ? since God made 

your acts 
Inherent in your lives, and bound your 

hands 
With instincts and imperious sanctities 
From self- defacement 1 Which of you 

disdains 
These sinners who in falling proved their 

height 
Above you by their liberty to fall? 
And which of you complains of loss by 

them. 
For whose delight and use ye have your 

life 
And honor in creation ? Ponder it I 
This regent and sublime Humanity, 
Though fallen, exceeds you ! this shall 

film your sun, 
Shall hunt your lightning to its lair of 

cloud, 
Turn back your ;ivtrs, footpath all your 

seas. 
Lay flat your forests, master with a look 
Your lion at his fasting, and fetch down 
Your eagle flying. Nry, without this 

law 
Of mandom, ye would perish. — beast by 

beast 
Devouring ; tree by tree, with stran- 
gling roots 
And trunks set tuskwise. Ye would 

gaze on God 
With imperceptive blankness up the 

stars. 
And mutter, 'Why, God, ha.st thou 

made us thus ?' 
And pining to a sallow idiocy 
Stagger up blindly against the ends cf 

life; 
Then stagnate into rottenness and drop 
Heavily — poor, dead matter — piecemeal 

down 
The abysmal spaces— like a little stone 
Let fall to chaos. Therefore over you 
Receive man's sceptre. — therefore be 

content 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



'95 



To minister with voluntary grace 
And melancholy pardon, every rite 
And function in you, to tlie human hand. 
Be ye to man as angels arc to God, 
Servants in pleasure, singers of delight, 
Suggesters to his soul of higher things 
Than any of your highest. So at last, 
He shall look round on you with lids too 

straight 
To hold the grateful tears, and thank you 

well ; 
And bless you when he prays his secret 

prayers. 
And praise you when he sings his open 

songs 
For the clear song-note he has learnt in 

you 

Of purifying sweetness ; and extend 
Across your head his golden fantasies 
Which glorify you into soul from sense ! 
Go serve him for such price. That not 

in vain 

Nor yet ignobly ye shall serve, I place 
My word here for an oath, mine oath 

for act 
To be hereafter. In the name of which 
Perfect redemption and perpetual grace, 
I bless you through the hope and through 

the peace 
Which are mine,— to the Love, which is 
myself. 
Eve. Speak on still. Christ. Albeit 
thou bless me not 
In set words, I am blessed in hearkening 

thee — 
Speak, Christ. 

Christ. Speak, Adam. Bless the 
woman, man — 
It is thine office. 

Adam. Mother of the world. 

Take heart before this Presence. Lo ! 

my voice. 
Which, naming erst the creatures, did 

express, 
God breathing through my breath,— the 

attributes 
And mstincts of each creature in its 

name ; 
Floats to the same afflatus, — floats and 

heaves 
Like a water-weed that opens to a 

wave, 
A full-leaved prophecy affecting thee, 



Out fairly and wide. Henceforward, 

rise, aspire 
To all the calms and magnanimities. 
The lofty uses and the noble ends. 
The sanctified devotion and full work. 
To which thou art elect forcvermore. 
First woman, wife, and mother. 

Eve. And first in sin. 

Adam. And also the sole bearer of 

the Seed 
Whereby sin dieth 1 Raise the majes- 
ties 
Of thy disconsolate brows, O well-be. 

loved. 
And front with level eyelids the To 

come. 
And all the dark o' the world. Rise, 

woman, rise 
To thy peculiar and best altitudes 
Of doing good and of enduring ill. 
Of comforting for ill, and teaching 

good. 
And reconciling all that ill and good 
Unto the patience of a constant hope, — 
Rise with thy daughters 1 If sin come 

by thee. 
And by sin, death,— the ransom-right- 

eoiisness. 
The heavenly life and compensative 

rest 
Shall corne by means of thee. If wo by 

thee 
Had issued to the world, thou shalt go 

forth 
An angel of the wo thou didst achieve ; 
Found acceptable to the world instead 
Of others of that name, of whose bright 

steps 
Thy deed stripped bare the hills. Be 

satisfied ; 
Something thou hast to bear through 

womanhood — 
Peculiar suflfering answering to the sin : 
Some pang paid down for each new hu- 
man life ; 
Some weariness in guarding such a 

life- 
Some coldness from the guarded ; some 

mistrust 
From those thou hast too well served ; 

from those beloved 
Too loyally some treason : feebleness 
Within thy heart, and cruelty without ; 



196 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



And pressures of an alien tyranny 
With its dynastic reasons of larger bones 
And stronger sinews. But, go to 1 thy 

love 
Shall chant itself its own beatitudes 
^Vfter its own life-working. A child's 

kiss 
Sot on thy sighing lips, shall make thee 

glad : 
A poor man served by thee, shall make 

thee rich ; 
A sick man helped by thee, shall make 

thee strong ; 
Thou shalt be served thyself by every 

sense 
Of service which thou renderest. Such 

a crown 
I set upon thy head, — Christ witnessing 
With looks of prompting love — to keep 

thee clear 
Of all reproach against the sin foregone. 
From all the generations which succeed. 
Thy hand which plucked the apple, I 

clasp close ; 
Thy lips which spake wrong counsel, I 

kiss close, 
I bless thee in the name of Paradise 
And by the memory of Edenic joys 
Forfeit and lost ; by that last cypress tree 
Green at the gate, which thrilled as we 

came out ; 
And by the blessed nightingale which 

threw 
Its melancholy music after us ; — 
And by the flowers, whose spirits full of 

smells 
Did follow softly, plucking us behind 
Back to the gradual banks and vernal 

bowers 
And four-fold river-courses: — by all 

these, 
I bless thee to the contraries of these ; 
I bless thee to the desert and the thorns. 
To the elemental change and turbulence. 
And to the roar of the estranged beasts. 
And to the solemn dignities of grief, — 
To each one of these ends, — and to this 

END 

Of Death and the hereafter I 



E7>e. 



accept 



For me and for my daughters this high 

part 
Which lowly shall be counted. Noble 

work 



Shall hold me in the place of garden- 
rest ; 

And in the place of Eden's lost delight 

Worthy endurance of perniitted pain ; 

While on my longest patience there shall 1 
wait 

Death's speechless angel, smiling in the : 
east 

Whence cometh the cold wind. I bow 
myself 

Humbly henceforward on the ill I did. 

That humbleness may keep it in the 
shade. 

Shall it be so ? Shall / smile, saying so ? 

seed ! O king 1 O God, who skuii be 

seed, — 
What shall I say ? As Eden's fountains 

swelled 
Brightly betwixt their banks, so swells 

my soul 
Betwi.\t Thy love and power ! 

And, sweetest thoughts 
Of foregone Eden ! now, for the first 

time 
Since God said ' Adam,' walking through 

the trees, 

1 dare to pluck you as I plucked crc- 

while 
The lily or pink, the rose or heliotrope. 
So pluck I you — so largely — with both 

hands. 
And throw you forward on the outer 

earth 
Wherein we are cast out, to sweeten it. 
Adam. As thou, Christ, to illume it. 

boldest Heaven 
Broadly above our heads. 

[ The Christ is gradually transfigured 
during the folio-wing phrases of dia- 
logue, into hutnanity and suffering. 

Eve. O Saviour Christ, 

Thou standest mute in glory, like the 
sun. 
Adam. We worship in Thy silence. 

Saviour Christ. 
Eve. Thy brows grow grander with 
a forecast wo, — 
Diviner, with th possible of Death ! 
We worship in thy sorrow. Saviour 
Christ. 
Adam How do thy clear, still eyes 
transpierce our souls. 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



197 



As gazing through them toward the 

Father-throne 
In a pathetical, full Deity, 
Serenely as the stars gaze through the 

air 
Straight on each other. 

Eve. O pathetic Christ, 

Thou standest mute in glory, like the 

moon. 
Christ. Eternity stands alway front- 
ing God ; 
A stem colossal image, with blind eyes 
And grand dim lips that murmur ever- 
more 
God, God, God! While the rush of 

life and death. 
The roar of act and thought, of evil and 

good. 
The avalanches of the ruining worlds 
Tolling down ^ace, — the new world's 

genesis 
Budding in fire, — the gradual humming 

growth 
Of the ancient atoms and first forms of 

earth. 
The slow procession of the swathing seas 
And firmamental waters, — and the noise 
Of the broad, fluent strata of pure airs, — 
All these flow onward in the intervals 
Of that reiterated sound of — God ! 
Which WORD, innumerous angels 

straightway lift 
Wide on celestial altitudes of song 
And choral adoration, and then drop 
The burden softly, shutting the last notes 
In silver wings. Howbeit in the noon 

of time 
Eternity shall wax as dumb as Death, 
While a new voice beneath the spheres 

shall cry, 
' God ! Why hast thou forsaken me, 

my God?' 
And not a voice in heaven shall answer 

it. 
[The transfiguration is cofnJ>lete in 
silence. 

Adam. Thy speech is of the Heav- 

enlies ; yet, O Christ, 
Awfully human are thy voice and face ! 
E-iie. My nature overcomes me from 

thine eyes. 
Christ. In the set noon of time, shall 

one from Heaven, 



An angel fresh from looking upon God, 
Descend before a woman, blessing her 
With perfect benediction of pure love. 
For all the world in all its elements ; 
For all the creatures of earth, air, and 

sea ; 
For all men in the body and in the soul. 
Unto all ends of glory and sanctity. 
Eve. O pale, pathetic Christ — 1 wor- 
ship thee 1 
I thank thee for that woman 1 

Christ. Then, at last, 

I, wrapping round me your humanity. 
Which being sustained, shall neither 

break nor burn 
Beneath the fire of Godhead, will tread 

earth. 
And ransom you and it, and set strong 

peace 
Betwixt you and its creatures. With 

my pangs 
I will confront your sins : and since 

those sins 
Have sunken to all nature's heart from 

yours. 
The tears of my clean soul shall follow 

them 
And set a holy passion to work clear 
Absolute consecration. In my brow 
Of kingly whiteness, shall be crowned 

anew 
Your discrowned human nature. Look 

on me ! 
As I shall be uplifted on a cross 
In darkness of eclipse and anguish dread. 
So shall I lift up in my pierced hands. 
Not into dark, but light — not unto death. 
But life, beyond the reach of guilt and 

grief. 
The whole creation. Henceforth in my 

name 
Take courage, O thou woman, — man, 

take hope ! 
Your grave shall be as smooth as Eden's 

sward, 
Beneath the steps of your prospective 

thoughts ; 
And one step past it a new Eden-gate 
Shall open on a hinge of harmony. 
And let you through to mercy. Ye 

shall fall 
No more, within that Eden, nor pass out 
Any more from it. In which hope, move 
on. 



198 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



First sinners and first mourners. Live 
and love,— 

Doing both nobly, because lowlily ; 

Live and work, strongly, — because pa- 
tiently ! 

And for the deed of death, trust it to 
God, 

That it be well done, unrepented of, 

And not to loss. And thence with con- 
stant prayers 

Fasten your souls so high, that con- 
stantly 

The smile of your heroic cheer may 
float 

Above all floods of earthly agonies. 

Purification being the joy of pain ! 

The vision i^/" Christ vanishes. Adam 
and Eve stand in an ecstasy. The 
earth-zodiac pales away, shade by 
shade, as the stars, star by star, 
shine out in the sky : and the fol- 
loiving chant frotn Hie two Earth- 
spirits (as they sweep back into the 
zodiac and disappear with it) ac- 
companies the process of change. 

Earth Spirits. 

By the mighty woid thus spoken 

Both for living and for dying, 
We, our homage-oath once broken. 

Fasten back again in sighing ; 
And the creatures and the elements 

renew their covenanting. 
Here, forgive us all our scorning ; 

Here, we promise milder duty ; 
And the evening and the morning 

Shall re-organize in beauty 
A sabbath day of sabbath joy, for imi- 

versal chanting. 

And if, still, this melancholy 

May be strong to overcome us ; 
If this mortal and unholy 

We still fail to cast out from us, — 
And we turn upon you, unaware, your 
own dark influences ; 
If ye tremble when surrounded 

By our forest pine and palm trees ; 
If we cannot cure the wounded 
With our gum-trees and our balm- 
trees. 
And if your souls all mournfully sit 
down among your senses, — 



Yet, O mortals, do not fear lis. 

We are gentle in our languor ; 
And more good ye shall have near us 
Than any pain or anger : 
And our God's refracted blessing in our 
blessing shall be given 1 
By the desert's endless vigil 

We will solemnize your passions ; 
By the wheel of the black eagle 
We will teach you exaltations. 
When he sails against the wind, to the 
white spot up in Heaven. 

Ye shall find us tender nurses 

To your weariness of nature ; 
And our hands shall stroke the curse's 
Dreary furrows from the creature, 
Till your bodies shall lie smooth in 
death, and straight and slumber- 
ful : 
Then, a couch we will provide you 
Where no summer heat shall daz- 
zle ; 
Strewing on you and beside you 
Thyme and rosemary and basil — 
And the yew-tree shall grow overhead 
to keep all safe and cool. 

Till the Holy blood awaited 

Shall be chrism around us running. 
Whereby, newly-consecrated 

We shall leap up in God's sunning. 
To join the spheric company which 
purer worlds assemble ; 
While, renewed by new evangels. 

Soul-consummated, made glorious. 
Ye shall brighten past the angels — 
Ye shall kneel lo Christ victorious ; 
And the rays around His feet beneath 
your sobbing lips, shall tremble. 

[The phantastic vision has all passed : 
the earth-zodiac has broken like a 
belt, and dissolved frotn the desert. 
The Earth Spirits vanish ; and the 
stars shine out above. 

CHORUS OF INVISIBLE ANGELS. 

While Adam and Eve advance into 
the desert, hand in hand. 
Hear our heavenly promise 

Through your mortal passion 1 
Love ye shall have from us. 
In a pure relation I 



A DRAMA OF EXILE. 



199 



As a fish or bird 

Swims or flies, if moving. 
We unseen are heard 

To live on by loving. 
Far above the glances 

Of your eager eyes. 
Listen I we are loving ! 
Listen, through man's ignorances — 
Listen, through God's mysteries — 
Listen down tlie heart of things. 
Ye shall hear our mystic wings 
JNIiirmurous with loving ! 

Through the opal door, 

Listen evermore 

How we live by loving 1 

First semichorus. 

When your bodies therefore. 
Reach the grave their goal. 
Softly will we care for 

Each enfranchisea soul I 
Softly and unlothly 

Through the door of opal 
Toward the Heavenly people. 
Floated on a minor fir.e 
Into the full chant divine, 

We will draw you smoothly,— 
While the human in the minor 
Makes the harmony diviner : 
Listen to our loving I 

Second semichorus. 
There a sough of glory 

Shall breathe on you as you come. 
Ruffling round the doorway 
All the light of angeldom. 
From the empyrean centre 

Heavenly voices shall repeat — 
' Souls redeemed and pardoned, enter ; 

For the chrism on you is sweet.' 
And every angel in the place 
Lowlily shall bow his face. 

Folded fair on softened sounds. 
Because upon your hands and feet 

He images his Master's wounds : 
Listen to our loving ! 

First semichorus. 
So, in the universe's 

Consummated undoing. 
Our seraphs of white mercies 

Shall hover round the ruin ! 
Their wings shall stream upon the flame 
As if incorporate of the same 



In elemental fusion ; 
And calm their faces shall burn out 
With a pale and mastering thought. 
And a steadfast looking ot desire 
From out between the clefts of fire, — 
While they cry, in the Holy's name. 

To the final Restitution 1 
Listen to our loving ! 

Second semichorus. 
So, when the day of God is 

To the thick graves accompted ; 
Awaking the dead bodies. 

The angel of the trumpet 
Shall split and shatter the earth 

To the roots of the grave 
Which never before were slackened 

And quicken the charnel birth 
With his bl.xst so ciear and brave ; 

Till the Dead shall start and stand 
erect 
And every face of the burial-place 

Shall the awful, single look reflect. 
Wherewith he them awakened. 

Listen to our loving ! 

First semichorus. 
But wild is the horse of Death ! 
He will leap up wild at the clamour 

Above and beneath ; 

And where is his Tamer 

On that last day. 

When he crioth. Ha, ha! 

To the trumpet's blare. 
And paweth the earth's Aceldama ? 

When he tosseth his head. 

The drear-white steed. 
And ghastily champeth the last moon- 
ray, — 

What angel there 

Can lead him away. 
That the living may rule far the Dead ? 

Second semichorus. 
Yet a Tamer shall be found ! 
One more bright than seraph crowned. 
And mofe strong than cherub bold ; 
Elder, too, than angel old. 
By his gray eternities. 
He shall master and surprise 

The steed of Death. 
For He is strong, and He is fain ; 
He shall quell him with a breath. 
And shall lead him where He will. 



A DRAMA OF EXILE.. 



Witli a whisper in the ear. 

Full of fear— 
And a hand upon the mane. 

Grand and still. 

First scmichortts. 
Through the flats of Hades where the 

souls assemble 
He will guide the Death-steed calm 

between their ranks ; 
While, like beaten dogs, they a little 

moan and tremble 
To see the darkness curdle from the 

horse's glittering flanks. 
Through the flats of Hades, where the 

dreary shade is, 
Up the steep of Heaven, will the Tamer 

guide the steed,' — 
Up the spheric circles — circle above 

circle. 
We who count the ages, shall count the 

tolling tread — 
Every hoof-fall striking a bhnder, 

blanker sparkle 
From the stony orbs, which shall show 

as they were dead. 

Second semichorus. 

All the way the Death-steed with toll- 
ing hoofs shall travel, 

Ashen gray the planets shall be motion- 
less as stones ; 

Loosely shall the systems eject their parts 
coeval, — 

Stagnant in the spaces shall float the 
pallid moons ; 

Suns that touch their apogees, reeling 
from their level. 

Shall run back on their axles, jn wild, 
low, broken tunes. 

Chorus. 
/Jp against the arches of the crystal 

ceiling. 
From the horse's nostrils shall steam the 

blurting breath ; 
Up between the angels pale with silent 

feeling. 
Will the Tamer, calmly, lead the horse 

of death. 

Semichorus. 
Cleaving all that silence, cleaving all 
*hat glory. 



Will the Tamer lead him straightway to 

the Throne ; 
' Look out, O Jehovah, to this I bring 

before Thee 
With a hand nail-pierced, — I who am 

thy Son.' 
Then the Eye Divinest, from the Deep- 
est, flaming. 
On the mystic courser, shall look out in 

fire : 
Blind the beast shall stagger where It 

overcame him. 
Meek as lamb at pasture — bloodless in 

desire — 
Down the beast shall shivers—slain amid 

the taming — 
And, by Life essential, the phantasm 

Death expire. 

Chorus. 
Listen, man, through life and death. 
Through the dust and through the 

breath. 
Listen down the heart of things ! 
Ye shall hear our mystic wings 
Murmurous with loving. 
A Voice from below. Gabriel, thou 

Gabriel ! 
A Voice from above. What wouldst 

thou with me ? 
First Voice. I heard thy voice sound 
in the angels' song ; 
And I would give thee question. 

Second Voice. Question me. 

First Voice. Why have I called thrice 
to my Morning-star 
And had no answer? All the stars are 

out. 
And answer in their places. Only in 

vain 
I cast my voice against the outer rays 
Of my star, shut in light behind the sun. 
No more reply than from a breaking 

string. 
Breaking when touched. Or is she 7!ot 

my star? 
Where is my star— my star ? Have ye 

cast down 
Her glory like my glory? Ha.s she 

waxed 
Mortal, like Adam ? Has she learnt to 

hate 
Like any angel? 

Second Voice. She is sad for thee : 



THE LOST BOWER. 



All things grow sadder to thee, one by 
one. 
Chorus. Live, work on, O Earthy 1 
Uy the Actual's tension. 
Speed the arrow worthy 

Of a pure ascension. 
From the low earth round you. 
Reach the heights above you ; 
From the stripes that wound you. 

Seek the loves that love you I 
God's divinest burneth plain 

Through the crystal diaphane 
Of our loves that love you. 
First Voice Gabriel, O Gabriel ! 
Second Voice. What wouldst thou 

with me ? 
First Voice. Is it true, O thou Ga- 
briel, that the crown 
•)f sorrow which I claimed, another 

claims ? 
That He claims tjiat too ? 

Second Voice. Lost one, it is true. 

First Voice. That He will be an 
exile from His Heaven, 
To lead those exiles homeward ? 

Second Voice. It is true. 

F'irst Voice. That He will be an 
exile by His will. 
As 1 by mine election ! 

Second Voice. It is trvie. 

First Voice. That / shall stand sole 
exile finally, — 
Made desolate for fruition ? 

Second Voice. It is true. 

First Voice. Gabriel ! 
Second Voice. I hearken. 

First Voice. It is true besides— 

Aright true— that mine orient star will 

give 
Her name of ' Bright and Morning-Star' 

to Him, — 
And take the fairness of his virtue back, 
To cover loss and sadness ? 

Second Voice. It is true. 

First Voice. UNtrue. UNtrue ! O 
Morning-star ! O Mine ! 
Who sittest secret in a veil of light 
Far up the starry spaces, sdiy, — Untrue/ 
Speak but so loud as doth a wasted 

moon 
To Tyrrhene waters ! I am Lucifer — 

[A pause. Silence in the stars. 
All things grow sadder to me, one by 



An£-el chorus. 

Exiled human creatures. 

Let your hope grow larger 
Larger grows the vision 

Of the new delight. 
From this chain ot Nature's, 

God is the Discharger ; 
And the Actual prison 

Opens to your sight. 

Se?nichorus. 

Calm the stars and golden. 

In a light exceeding : 
What their rays have measured. 

Let your feet fulfil ! 
These are stars beholden 

By your eyes in Eden ; 
Yet, across the desert. 

See them shining still. 

Chorus. Future joy and far light 

Working such relations. 
Hear us singing gently 

Exiled is not lost! 
God, above the starlight, 

God, above the patience. 
Shall at last present ye 

Guerdons worth the cost. 
Patiently enduring. 

Painfully surrounded. 
Listen how we love you — 

Hope the uttermost — 
Waiting for that curing 

Which exalts the wounded. 
Hear us sing above you — 

Exiled, but not lost ! 

\The stars shine on brightly, while 
Adam and Eve pursue their way 
into the/ar wilderness. There is a 
sound through the silence, as i^ the 
/ailing tears of an angel. 



THE LOST BOWER. 

In the pleasant orchard closes, 
' God bless all our gains,' say we ; 
But ' May God bless all our losses,' 
Better suits with our degree 
Listen gentle — ay, and simple ! Listen 
children on the knee 1 



THE LOST BOWER. 



Green the land is where my daily 
Steps in jocund childhood played— 
Dimpled close with hill and valley. 
Dappled very close with shade ; 
Summer-snow of apple blossoms running 
up from glade to glade. 

There is one hill I see nearer. 
In my vision of the rest ; 
And a little wood seems clearer. 
As it climbeth from the west, 
Sideway from the tree-locked valley, to 
the airy upland crest. 

Small the wood is, green with hazels. 

And, completing the ascent. 

Where the wind blows and sun 

dazzles. 
Thrills in leafy tremblement ; 
Like a heart that, after climbmg, beateth 

quickly through content. 

Not a step the wood advances 
O'er the open hill-top's bound : 
There, in green arrest, the branches 
See their image on the ground : 
You may walk beneath them smdmg. 
glad with sight and glad with sound. 

For you hearken on your right hand. 
How the birds do leap and call 
In the greenwood, out of sight and 
Out of reach and fear of all ; 
And the squirrels crack the filberts, 
through their cheerful madrigal. 

On your left, the sheep are cropping 
The slant grass and daisies pale ; 
And five apple-trees stand dropping 
Separate shadows toward the vale. 
Over which, in choral silence, the hiils 
look you their ' All hail !' 

Far out, kindled by each other. 
Shining hills on hills arise ; 
Close as brother leans to brother. 
When they press beneath the eyes 
Of some father praying blessings trom 
the gifts of paradise. 

While beyond, above them mounted, 
And above their woods also, 
Malvern hills, for mountains counted 



Not unduly, loom a-row — 
Keepers of Piers Plowman's vision.s, 
through the sunshine and the snow . "* 

Yet in childhood little prized I 
That fair walk and far survey : 
'Twas a straight walk, unadvised by 
The least mischief worth a nay— 
Up and down— as dull as grammar on 
the eve of holiday. 

But the wood, all close and clenching: 
Bough in bough and root in root,— 
No more sky (for over-branching) 
At your head than at your foot,-- 
Oh, the wood drew me withm it, by a 
' glamour past dispute. 
Few and broken paths showed through 

Where the sheep had tried to run,— 
Forced with snowy wool to strew it 
Round the thickets, when anon 
They with silly thorn - pricked noses, 
bleated back into the sun. 
But my childish heart beat stronger 
Than those thickets dared to grow : 
/could pierce them ! / could longer 
Travel on, methought, than so. 
Sheep for sheep-paths ! braver children 
climb and creep where they would go. 

And the poets wander, said I, 
Over places all as rude ! 
Bold Rinaldo's lovely lady- 
Sat to meet him in a wood— 

Rosalinda, like a fountain, laughed out ll 
pure with solitude. 
And if Chaucer had not travelled 
Through a forest by a well, 
He had never dreamt nor marvelled 
At those ladies fair and fell 

Who lived smiling without loving, ft 
their island-citadel. 

Thus I thought of the old singers. 
And took courage from their song. 
Till my litdc struggling fingers 



. The Malvern Hills «' Woi'-ester^l. i.e ».« 
the scene of Langlande's visions, ""'l *' »* 
present the earliest classic ground ot English 
poetry. 



THE LOST BOWER. 



Tore asunder gyve and thong 
Of the brambles which entrapped me, 
and the barrier branches strong. 

Oil a da}', siicli pastime keeping. 
With a fawn's heart debonaire, 
Under-crawhng, overleaping. 
Thorns that prick and boughs that 
bear, 
I stood suddenly astonished — I was glad- 
dened unaware. 

From the place I stood in, floated 
Back the covert dim and close ; 
And the open ground was coated 
Carpet-smooth with grass and moss, 
And the blue-bell's purple presence 
signed it worthily across. 

Here a linden-tree stood, brightening 
All adown its silver rind ; 
For as some trees draw the lightning. 
So this tree, unto my mind. 
Drew to earth the blesse i sunshine from 
the sky where it was shrined. 

Tall the linden-tree, and near it 
An old hawthorn also grew ; 
And wood-ivy like a spirit 
Hovered dimly round the two. 
Shaping thence that Bower of beauty 
which I sing of thus to you. 

'Twas a bower for garden fitter 
Than for any woodland wide. 
Though a fresh and dewy glitter 
Struck it through from side to side. 
Shaped and shaven was the freshness, 
;is by garden-cunning plied. 

Oh, a lady might have come there. 
Hooded fairly like her hawk, 
With a book or lute in summer. 
And a hope of sweeter talk, — 
Listening less to her own music, than for 
footsteps on the walk. 

Rut that bower appeared a marvel 
In the wlldness of the place ! 
With such seeming art and travail. 
Finely fixed and fitted was 
Leaf to leaf, the dark-green ivy, to the 
summit from the base. 



And the ivy, veined and glossy. 
Was inwrought with eglantine ; 
And the wild-hop fibred closely, 
And the large-leaved columbine. 
Arch of door and window mullion, did 
right sylvanly entwine. 

Rose-trees either side the door were 
Growing lythe and growing tall ; 
Each one set a summer warder 
For the keeping of the hall, — 
With a red rose and a white rose, lean- 
ing, nodding at the wall. 

As I entered — mosses hushing 
Stole all noises from my foot ; 
And a green elastic cushion. 
Clasped within the linden's root. 
Took me in a chair of silence, very rare 
and absolute. 

All the floor was paved with glory. 

Greenly, silently inlaid. 

Through quick motions made before 

me. 
With fair counterparts in shade 
Of the fair serrated ivy-leaves which 

slanted overhead. 

' Is such a pavement in a palace V 
So I questioned in my thought : 
The sun, shining through the chalice 
Of the red rose hung without. 
Threw within a red libation, like an 
answer to my doubt. 

At the same time, on the linen 

Of my childish lap there fell 

Two white may-leaves, downward 

winning 
Through the ceiling''s miracle. 
From a blossom, like an angel, out of 

sight yet blessing well. 

Down to floor and up to ceiling. 
Quick I turned my childish face ; 
With an innocent appealing 
For the secret of the place. 
To the trees which surely knew it, hi 
partaking of the grace. 

Where's no foot of human creature. 
How could reach a human hand "l 
And if this be work of nature. 



THE LOST BOWER. 



Why has nature turnea so bland, 
breaking off from other wild work? It 
was hard to understand. 

W;x;; slTe weary of rough-donig. 
Of the bramble and the thorn 1 
Did she pause in tender ruing, 
Here, of all her sylvan scorn? 
Or, in mock of art's deceiving, was the 
sudden mildness worn ? 

Or could the same bower (I fancied) 
l!e the work of Dryad strong ; 
Who, surviving all that chanced 
In the world's old pagan wrong. 
Lay hid, feeding in the woodland on the 
last true poet's song ? 

Or was this the house of fairies. 
Left because of the rough ways, 
Unassoiled by Ave Marys 
Which the passing pilgrim prays. 
And beyond St. Catherine's chiming on 
the blessed Sabbath days ? 

So, young muser, I sat listening 
I'o my fancy's wildest word — 
On a sudden, through the glistening 
Leaves aro\md a little stirred. 
Came a sound, a sense of music, which 
was rather felt than heard. 

Softly, finely, it enwound me — 
From the world it shut me in, — 
Like a fountain falling round me, 
Which with silver waters thin 
Clips a little water Naiad sitting 
smilingly within. 

Whence the music came, who know- 

eth? 
/know nothing. But indeed 
Pan or Faunus never bloweth 
So much sweetness from a reed. 
Which has sucked the milk of waters 

at the oldest riverhead. 

Never lark the sun can waken 
With such sweetness ! when the lark. 
The high planets overtaking 
In the half evanished dark 
Ca.st his singing to their singinst, like an 
arrow to the mark. 



] Never nightingale so singeth — 
Oh ! she leans on thorny tree. 
And her poet song she flingeth 
Over pain to victory ! 
Yet she never sings such music, — or she 
sings it not to me. 

Never blackbirds, never thrushe.s. 
Nor small finches sing as sweet. 
When the sun strikes through the 

bushes 
To their crimson clinging feet. 
And their pretty eyes look sideways to 

the summer heavens complete. 

If it were a bird, it seemed 
Most like Chaucer's, which, in sooth. 
He of green and azure dreamed. 
While it sat in spirit-ruth 
On that bier of a crowned lady, singing , 
nigh her silent mouth. 

If it were a bird ! — ah, sceptic. 
Give me ' Yea ' or give me ' Nay ' — 
Though my soul were nympholeptic. 
As I heard that virelay. 
You may stoop your pride to pardon, 
for my sin is far away. 

I rose up in exaltation 
And an inward trembling heat. 
And (it seemed) in geste of passion 
Dropped the music to my feet. 
Like a garment rustling downwards ! — 
such a silence followed it. 

Heart and head beat through the 

quiet. 
Full and heavily, though slower ; 
In the song, I think, and by it. 
Mystic Presences of power 
Had up-snatched me to the Timele&s, 

then returned me to the Hour. 

In a child-abstraction lifted. 
Straightway from the bovver I past ; 
Foot and soul being dimly drifted 
Through the greenwood, till, at last. 
In the hill-top's open sunshine, 1 all 
conscioasly was cast. 

Face to face with the true mountains, 
I stood silently and still ; 



THE LOST BOWER. 



SOS 



Drawing strength for fancy's daunt- 

ings, 
From the air about the hill, 
And from Nature's open mercies, and 
most debonair goodwill. 

Oh ! the golden-hearted daisies 
Witnessed there, before my youth. 
To the truth of things with praises 
To the beauty of the truth : 
And I woke to Nature's real, laughing 
joyfully for both. 

And I said within me, laughing, 
1 have found a bower to-day, 
A green lusus — fashioned half in 
Chance, and half in Nature's play— 
And a little bird sings nigh it, 1 will 
nevermore missay. 

Henceforth / will be the fairy 
Of this bower, not built by one ; 
I will go there sad or merry. 
With each morning's benison : 
And the bird shall be my harper in the 
dream-hall I have won. 

So I said. But the next morning, 
( — Child, look up into my face — 
'Ware, oh sceptic, of your scorning ! 
This is truth in its pure grace ;) 
The next morning, all had vanished, or 
my wandering missed the place. 

Bring an oath most sylvan holy, 
And upon it swear me true — 
By the wind-bells swinging slowly 
Their mute curfews in the dew — 
By the advent of the snow-drop — by the 
rosemary and rue, — 

I affirm by all or any. 
Let the cause be charm or chance, 
That my wandering searches many 
Missed the bower of my romance — 
That I nevermore upon it, turned my 
mortal countenance. 

I affirm that, since I lost it. 
Never bower has seemed so fair — 
Never garden- creeper crossed it. 
With so deft and brave an air — 
Never bird sung in the summer, as I saw 
and heard them there. 



Day by day, with new desire. 
Toward my wood I ran in faith — 
Under leaf and over briar — 
Through the thickets, out of breath — 
Like the prince who rescued Beauty 
from the sleep as long as death. 

But his sword of mettle clashed. 
And his arm smote strong, I ween ; 
And her dreaming spirit flashed 
Through her body's fair white screen. 
And the light thereof might guide him 
up the cedar alleys green. 

But for me, I saw no splendor — 
All my sword was my child-heart ; 
And the wood refused surrender 
Of that bower it held apart. 
Safe as CEdipus's grave-place, 'mid Co* 
lone's olives swart. 

As Aladdin sought the basements 
His fair palace rose upon. 
And the four and twenty casements 
Which gave answers to the sun ; 
So, in wilderment of gazing I looked up, 
and I looked down. 

Years have vanished since as wholly 
As the litle bower did then ; 
And you call it tender folly 
That such thoughts should come again? 
Ah ! I cannot change this sighing for 
your smiling, brother-men I 

For this loss it did prefigure 
Other loss of better good. 
When my soul, in spirit-vigor. 
And in ripened womanhood. 
Fell from visions of more beauty than 
an arbor in a wood. 

I have lost — oh many a pleasure — 
Many a hope and many a power — 
Studious health and merry leisure — 
The first dew on the first flower 1 
But the first of all my losses was the 
losing of the bower. 

I have lost the dream of Doing, 
And the other dream of Done — 
The first spring in the pursuing. 
The first pride in the Begun, — 
First recoil from incompletion, in the 
face of what is won — 



2o6 



THE ROM AUNT OF THE PAGE. 



Exhalations in the far light. 
Where some cottage only is-^ 
Mild dejections in the starlight, 
Which the sadder-hearted miss ; 
And the child-cheek blushing scarlet, 
for the very shame of bliss. 

I have lost the sound child-sleeping 
Which the thunder could not break ; 

1 Something too of the strong leaping 
Of the stagelike heart awake. 

Which the pale is low for keeping in the 
road it ought to take. 

Some respect to social fictions 
Hath been also lost by me ; 
And some generous genuflexions. 
Which my spirit offered free 
To the pleasant old conventions of our 
false Humanity. 

All my losses did I tell you. 

Ye, perchance, would look away ; — 

Ye would answer me, ' Farewell ! 

you 
Make sad company to-day ; 
And your tears are falling faster than 

the bitter words you say.' 

For God placed me like a dial 
In the open ground, with power ; 
And my heart had for its trial. 
All the sun and all the shower ! 
And I suffered many losses; and my 
first was of the bower. 

Laugh yon ? If that loss of mine be 
Of no heavy seeming weight — 
When the cone falls from the pine- 
tree. 
The young children laugh thereat ; 
Yet the wind that struck it, riseth, and 
the tempest shall be great ! 

One who knew me in my childhood. 
In the glamour and the game. 
Looking on me long and mild, would 
Never know me for the same. 
Come, unchanging recollections, where 
those changes overcame. 

On this couch I weakly lie on, 
While I count my memories, — 



Through the fingers which, still sigh, 

ing, 
I press closely on mine eyes, — 
Clear as once beneath the sunshine, ] 
behold the bower arise. 

Springs the linden-tree as greenly. 
Stroked with light adown its rind — 
And the ivy-leaves serenely 
Each in either intertwined. 
And the rose-trees at the doorway, they 
have neither grown nor pined. 

From those overblown faint roses. 
Not a leaf appeareth shed. 
And that little bud discloses 
Not a thorn's-breadth more of red. 
For the winters and the .summers which 
have passed me overhead. 

And that music overfloweth, 
Sudden sweet, and sylvan eaves : 
Thrush or nightingale — who knoweth? 
Fay or Faunus — who believes ? 
But my heart still trembles in me, to the 
trembling of the leaves. 

Is the bower lost, then ? Who sayeth 
That the bower indeed is lost ? 
Hark ! my spirit in it prayeth 
Through the sunshine and the frost, — 
And the prayer preserves it greenly, tO 
the last and uttermost — 

Till another open for me 
In God's Eden-land unknown. 
With an angel at the doorway. 
White with gazing at His Throne ; 
And a saint's voice in the palm-trees, 
singing — 'All is lost . . and won !' 



THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE. 

A KNIGHT of gallant deeds 
And a young page at his side 

From the holy war in Palestine 
Did slow and thoughtful ride, 

As each were a palmer, and told for 
beads 
The dews of the eventide. 



THE ROM AUNT OF THE PACE. 



207 



' O young page/ said the knight, 

• A noble page art thou ! 
Thou fcarest not to steep in blood 

The curls upon thy brow ; 
And once in the tent, and twice in the 
fight, 

Didst ward me a mortal blow — ' 

' O brave knight,' said the page, 

' Or ere we hither came. 
We talked in tent, we talked in field 

, Of the bloody battle game : 
But here, below this greenwood bough, 

I cannot speak the same. 

* Our troop is far behind. 

The woodland calm is new ; 
Our steeds, with slow grass-muffled 
hoofs. 

Tread deep the shadows through ; 
And in my mind, some blessing kind 

Is dropping with the dew. 

' The woodland calm is pure — 

I cannot choose but have 
A thought from these, o' the beechen- 
trees 

Which in our England wave ; 
And of the little finches fine 
Which sang there, while in Palestine 

The vrarrior-hilt we drave. 

' Methlnks, a moment gone, 

I heard my mother pray 1 
I heard, sir knight, the prayer for me 

Wherein she passed away ; 
And I know the Heavens are leaning 
down 

To hear what I shall say.' 

The page spaKe calm and nigh 

As of no mean degree ; 
Perhaps he felt in nature's broad 

Full heart, his own was free 
And the knight looked up to his lifted 
eye. 

Then answerea smilingly: — 

' Sir Page, J pray your grace ! 

Certcs, I meant not so 
To cross your pastoral mood, sir page. 

With tlie crook of the battle-bow ; 
But a knight may speak of a lady's face, 
1 ween, in any mood or place. 

If the grasses die or grow. 



'And this, I meant to say.-~ 
» My lady's face shaU shiue 
As ladies' faces use, to greet 

My Page from PaUstine : 
Or, speak she fair, or prank she gay. 

She is no lady of mine. 

'And this I meant to fear,— 
Her bower may suit thee ill ! 

For, sooth, in that same field and tent. 
Thy talk was somewhat still ; 

And fitter thy hand for thy knightly 
spear. 
Than thy tongue for my lady's will.' 

Slowly and thankfully 

The young page bowed his head : 
His large eyes seemed to muse a smile. 

Until he blushed instead ; 
And no lady in her bower pardie. 

Could blush more sudden red — 
' Sir Knight, — thy lady's bower to me. 

Is suited well,' he said. 

Beati, beati nicrtui ! 

From the convent on the sea, 

One mile off, or scarce as nigh. 

Swells the dirge as clear and high 

As if that, over brake and lea. 

Bodily the wind did carry 

The great altar of St Mary, 

And the fifty tapers burning o'er it. 

And the lady Abbess dead before it. 

And the chanting nuns whom yester' 

week 
Her voice did charge and bless— 
Chanting steady, chanting meek. 
Chanting with a solemn breath 
Because that they are thinking less 
Upon the Dead than upon death 1 
Beati, beati, viortui ! 
Now the vision in the sound 
Wheeleth on the wind around — 
Now it sleepeth back, away — 
The uplands will not let it stay 
To dark the western sun. 
Mortui ! — away at last. 
Or ere the page's blush is past ! 
And the knight heard all, and the page 

heard none. 

'A boon, thou noble knight. 

If ever I served thee 1 
Though thou art a knight and I am a 
page, 



s»o8 



THE ROM AUNT OF THE PAGE. 



Now grant a boon to me — 
And tell me sooth, if dark or bright, 
If little loved or loved aright. 

Be the face of thy ladye.' 

Gloomily looked the knight ; 

' As a son thou hast served me : 
And would to none I had granted boon. 

Except to only thee ! 
For haply then I should love aright, 
For then I should know if dark or bright 

Were the face of my ladye. 

' Yet ill it suits my knightly tongue 
To grudge that granted boon : 

That heavy price from heart and life 
I paid in silence down : 

The liand that claimed it, cleared in fine 

My father's fame : I swear by mine,- 
That price was nobly won. 

• Earl Walter was a brave old earl, — 

He was my father's friend ; 
And while I rode the lists at court 

And little guessed the end. 
My noble father in his shroud. 
Against a slanderer lying loud. 

He rose up to defend. 

• O, calm, below the marble gray 

My father's dust was strown ! 
Oh, meek, above the marble gray 

His image prayed alone 1 
The slanderer lied — the wretch was 

brave, — 
For, looking up the minster-nave. 
He saw my father's knightly glaive 

Was changed from steel to stone. 

" But Earl Walter's glaive was steel. 
With a brave old hand to wear it ! 
And dashed the lie back in the mouth 
Which lied against the godly truth 
And against the knightly merit : 
The slanderer, 'ueatii the avenger's heel, 
Struck up tlie dagger in appeal 
From stealthy lie to brutal force — 
And out upon that traitor's corse 
Was yielded the true spirit. 

• I would my hand had fought that fight 

And justified my father I 
I would my heart had caught that wound 
And slept beside him rather I 



I think it were a better thing 
Than murthered friend and marriage - 
ring 
Forced on my life together. 

' Wail shook Earl Walter's house— 

His true wife shed no tear — 
She lay upon her bed as mute 
As the earl did on his bier : 
Till—' Ride, ride fast,' she said at last, 
' And bring the avenged son anear ! 
Ride fast — ride free, as a dart can flee : 
For white of blee with waiting for me 
Is the corse in the next chambere.' 

' I came — I knelt beside her bed — 
Her calm was worse than strife — 
• My husband, for thy father dear. 
Gave freely when thou wert not here 

His own and eke my life. 
A boon ! Of that sweet child we make 
An orphan for thy father's sake. 
Make thou, for ours, a wife.' 

' I said, ' My steed neighs in the court : 

My bark rocks on the brine ; 
And the warrior's vow I am under now 

To free the pilgrim's shrine : 
But fetch the ring and fetch the priest 

And call that daughter of thine ; 
And rule she wide from my castle on 
Nyde 

While I am in Palestine.' 

' In the dark chambere, if the bride was 
fair. 
Ye wis, I could not see ; 
But the steed thrice neighed, and the 
priest fast prayed 
And wedded fast were we. 
Her mother smiled upon her bed 
As at its side we knelt to wed ; 
And the bride rose from her knee 
And kissed the smile of her mother 
dead. 
Or ever she kissed me. 

' My page, my page, what grieves thee 
so. 

That the tears run down thy face ? '— 
' Alas, alas ! mine own sister 

Was in thy lady's case ! 
But she laid down the silks she wore 
And followed him she wed before. 



THE ROM AUNT OF THE PAGE. 



209 



1 Disguised as his true servitor, 
'lb the very battle-place.' 

And wept the page, but laughed the 
knight, 

A careless laugh laughed he : 
* Well done it were for thy sister. 

But not for my ladye ! 
My love, so please you shall requite 
No woman, whether dark or bright, 

Unwomaned if she be.' 

The page stopped weeping, and smiled 
cold — 

'Your wisdom may declare 
That womanhood is proved the best 
By golden brooch and glossy vest 

The mincing ladies wear : 
Yet is it proved, and was of old, 
Anear as well — I dare to hold — 

By truth, or by despair.' 

He smiled no more — he wept no more — 

But pafwionately he spake, — 
' Oh, womanly she prayed in tent. 

When none beside did wake ! 
Oh, womanly she paled in fight. 

For one beloved's sake ! — 
And her little hand defiled with blood. 
Her tender tears of womanhood 

Most woman-pure did make ! ' 

' Well done it were for thy sister 

Thou tellest well her tale ! 
But for my lady, she shall pray 

r the kirk of Nydesdale — 
Not dread for me but love for me 

Shall make my lady pale : 
No casque shall hide her woman's tear — 
It shall have room to trickle clear 

Behind her woman's veil.' 



• But what if she mistook thy mind 
And followed thee to strife ; 

Then kneeling, did entreat thy love. 
As Paynims ask for life V 

' I would forgive, and evermore 

Would love her as my servitor. 
But little as my wife. 

'Look up — there is a small bright cloud 
Alone amid the skies I 



So high, so pure, and so apart, 

A woman's honor lies.' 
The page looked up — the cloud wa4 

sheen — 
A sadder cloud did rush, I ween. 

Betwixt it and his eyes : 



Then dimly dropped his eyes away 

From welken unto hill — 
Ha! who rides there?— the page is 
'ware. 
Though the cry at his heart is still ! 
And the page seeth all and the knight 

seeth none 
Though banner and spear do fleck the 
sun. 
And the Saracens ride at will. 



He speaketh calm, he speaketh low, — 
' Ride fast, my master, ride. 

Or ere within the broadening dark 
The narrow shadows hide ! ' 

' Yea, fast, my page ; I will do so ; 
And keep thou at my side." 



• Now nay, now nay, ride on thy way. 
Thy faithful page precede 1 

For I must loose on saddle-bow 

My battle-casque that galls, 1 trow. 
The shoulder of my steed ; 

And I must pray, as I did vow. 
For one in bitter need. 

Ere night I shall be near to thee, — 
Now ride, my master, ride ! 
Ere night, as parted spirits cleave 
To mortals too beloved to leave, 

I shall be at thy side.' 
The knight smiled free at the fantasy. 
And adown the dell did ride. 

Had tlje knight looked up to the page's 
face. 
No smile the word had won ! 
Had the knight looked up in the page's 
face, 
I ween he had never gone : 
Had the knight looked back to th« 
page's geste. 



THE ROM AUNT OF THE PAGE. 



I ween he had turned anon : 
For dread was the wo in the face so 

young ; 
And wild was the silent geste that flung 



Casque, sword to earth— 
down-sprung. 
And stood — alone, alone. 



the boy 



He clenched his hands as if to hold 

His soul's great agony — 
• Have I renounced my womanhood. 

For wifehood unto thee ? 
And is this the last, last look of thine 

That ever I shall see ? 



' Yet God thee save, and mayst thou have 

A lady to thy mind ; 
More woman-proud and half as true 

As one thou leav'st behind ! 
And God me take with Him to dwell— 
For Him I cannot love too well. 

As I have loved my kind.' 

She looketh up. in earth's despair. 
The hopeful Heavens to seek : 

That little cloud still floateth there. 
Whereof her Loved did speak. 

How bright the little cloud appears I 

Her eyelids fall upon the tears. 
And the tears down either cheek. 



The tramp of hoof, the flash of steel— 
The Paynims round her coming ! 

The sound and sight have made her 
calm, — 
False page, but truthful woman ! 

She stands amid them all unmoved : 

The heart once broken by the loved 
Is strong to meet the foeman. 



' Ho, Christian page ! art keeping sheep. 
From pouring wine cups resting?' — 

' I keep my master's noble name. 
For warring, not for feasting : 

And if that here Sir Hubert were. 

My master brave, my master dear. 
Ye would not stay to question.' 



• Where is thy master, scornful page. 
That we may slay or bind him ? ' — 

•Now search the lea and search tho 
wood. 
And see if ye ran find him ! 

Nathless, as hath been often tried. 

Your Paynim heroes faster ride 
Before him than behind him.' 

•Give smoother answers, lying page. 

Or perish in the lying,'— 
' I trow that if the warrior brand 
Beside my foot, were in my hand, 

'Twere better at replying.' 
They cursed her deep, they smote her 

low. 
They cleft her golden ringlets through : 

The Loving is the Dying. 

She felt the scimitar gleam down. 

And met it from beneath 
With smile more bright in victory 

Than any sword from sheath, — 
Which flashed across her lip serene. 
Most like the spirit-light between 

The darks of life and death. 



Ingeniisco, ingemisco ! 
From the convent on the sea. 
Now it sweepeth solemnly ! 
As over wood and over lea 
Bodily the wind did carry 
The great altar of St. Maiy, 
And the fifty tapers paling o'er it. 
And the Lady Abbess stark before it. 
And the weary nuns with hearts thai 
faintly 

Beat along their voices saintly — 

Ingevtisco, ingemisco .' 
Dirge for abbess laid in shroud, 
Sweepeth o'er the shroudless Dead, 
Page or lady, as we said. 
With the dews upon her head. 
All as sad if not as loud : 

Ingetnisco, ingemisco! 
Is ever a lament begun 
By any mourner under sun. 
Which, ere it endeth, suits but ene .' 



THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 



PART FIRST. 

' Onora, Onora' — her mother is call- 
ing- 
She sits at the lattice and hears the dew 

falling 
Drop after drop from the sycamores 

laden 
With dew as with blossom, and calls 
home the maiden — 
' Night Cometh, Onora.' 

She looks down the garden -walk cav- 

erned with trees. 
To the limes at the end where the green 

arbor is — 
' Some sweet thought or other may keep 

where it found her, 
While forgot or unseen in the dreamlight 

around her — 
Night cometh, Onora !' 

She looks up the forest whose alleys 

shoot on 
Like the mute minster-aisles when the 

anthem is done. 
And the choristers sitting with faces 

aslant 
Feel the silence to consecrate more than 

the chant — 
' Onora, Onora !' 

And forward she looketh across the 
brown heath — 

'Onora, art coming?' — what is it she 
seeth ? 

Nought, nought, but the gray border- 
stone that is wist 

To dilate and assume a wild shape in 
the mist — 
' My daughter !' — Then over 

The casement she leaneth, and as she 
doth so. 

She is 'ware of her little son playing be- 
low : 

' Now where is Onora ? ' — He hung 
down his head 



And spake not, then answering blushed 
scarlet red, — 
' At the tryst with her lover.' 

But his mother was wroth. In a stern- 
ness quoth she, 

' As thou play'st at the ball, art thou 
playing with me ? 

When we know that her lover to battle 
is gone. 

And the saints know above that she 
loveth but one 
And will ne'er wed another?' 

Then the boy wept aloud. 'Twas a fair 

sight yet sad 
To see the tears run down the sweet 

blooms he had : 
He stamped with his foot, said — ' The 

saints know I lied 
Because truth that is wicked is fittest to 

hide! 
Must I utter it, mother ? ' 

In his vehement childhood he harried 

within, 
And knelt at her feet as in prayer 

against sin ; 
But a child at a prayer never sobbeth as 

he — 
• Oh ! she sits with the nun of the brown 

rosarie. 
At nights in the ruin ! 

' The old convent ruin the ivy rots off. 
Where the owl hoots by day, and the 

toad is sun-proof ; 
Where no singing-birds build ; and the 

trees gaunt and gray 
As in stormy sea-coasts appear blasted 

one way — 
But is this the wind's doing ? 

' A nun in the east wall was buried alive. 
Who mocked at the priest when he called 

her to shrive, — 
And shrieked such a curse as the stone 

took her breath. 



THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 



The old abbess fell backward and 
swooned unto death 
With an ave half-spoken. 

• I tried once to pass it, myself and my 
hound, 

Till, as fearing the lash, down he shiv- 
ered to ground 1 

A brave hound, my mother ! a brave 
hound, ye wot 1 

And the wolf thought the same with his 
fangs at her throat 
In the pass of the Brocken. 

' At dawn and at eve, mother, who 

sitteth there, 
"With the brown rosarie never used for 

a prayer? 
Stoop low, mother, low! If we went 

there to see, 
What an ugly great hole in that west 

wall must be 
At dawn and at even ! 

' Who meet there, my mother, at dawn 

and at even ? 
Who meet by that wall, never looking 

to heaven ? 

sweetest my sister, what doeth with 

thee. 
The ghost of a nun with a brown rosarie. 
And a face turned from heaven ? 

' St. Agnes o'erwatcheth my dreams ; 
and erewhile 

1 have felt through mine eyelids the 

warmth of her smile — 
But last night, as a sadness like pity 

came o'er her. 
She whispered—' Say tzvo prayers at 

dawn for Onora ! 
ITie Tempted is sinning.' 

Onora, Onora ! they heard her not com- 
ing— 

Not a step on the grass, not a voice 
through the gloaming : 

But her mother looked up, and she stood 
on the floor 

Fair and still as the moonlight that came 
there before. 
And a smile just beginning : 



It touches her lips — but it dares not arise 

To the height of the mystical sphere of 
her eyes : 

And the large musing eyes, neither joy- 
ous nor sorry 

Sing on like the angels in separate glory, 
Between clouds of amber. 

For ,the hair droops in clouds amber- 
colored, till stirred 

Into gold by the gesture that comes with 
a word : 

While — O soft! — her speaking is so inter- 
wound 

Of the dim and the sweet, 'tis a twilight 
of sound 
And floats through the chamber. 

' Since thou shrivest my brother, fair 

mother,' said she, 
' I count on thy priesthood for marrying 

of me : 
And I know by the hills that the battle 

is done — 
That my lover rides on — will be here 

with the sun, 
'Neath the eyes that behold thee !' 

Her mother sat silent — too tender, I wis. 

Of the smile her dead father smiled dy- 
ing to kiss ; 

But the boy started up pale with tears, 
passion- wrought, — 

' O wicked £air sister, the hills utter 
nought ! 
If he Cometh, who told thee V 

' I know by the hills,' she resumed calm 

and clear, 
' By the beauty upon them, that he is 

an ear : 
Did they ever look so since he bade me 

adieu ? 
Oh, love in the waking, sweet brother, 

is true 
As St. Agnes in sleeping.' 

Half-ashamed and half-softened the boy 

did not speak. 
And the blush met the lashes which fell 

on his cheek : 
She bowed down to kiss him — Dear 

saints, did he sec 



THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 



Or feel on her bosom the brown kosa- 
RIE — 
That he shrank away weeping ? 



PART SECOND. 

A bed — Onora sleeping. Angels, but 
?tot Jtear. 

First Angel. 
Must we stand so far, and she 
So very fair t 

Second Angel. 

As bodies be. 

First Angel. 
And she so mild ? 

Second Angel. 

As spirits when 
They meeken, not to God, but men. 

First Angel. 
And she so young,— that I who bring 
Good dreams for saintly children, might 
Mistake that small soft face to-night. 
And fetch her such a blessed thing. 
That at her waking she would weep 
Jor childhood lost anew in sleep : 
How hath she sinned 1 

Second Angel. 

In bartering love — 
God's love — for man's : 

First Angel. 

We may reprove 
The world for this ! not only her : 
Let me approach to breathe away 
This dust o' the heart with holy air. 

Second Angel. 
Stand off! She sleeps, and did not pray. 

First Angel. 
Did none pray for her ? 

Second Angel. 

Ay, a child, — 
Who never, praying, wept before : 
While, in a mother undefiled 
Prayer goeth on in sleep, as true 
And pauseless as the pulses do. 

First Angel. 
Then I approach. 

Second Angel. 

It is not WILLED. 

First Angel. 
One word : Is she redeemed ? 



Second Angel. 
The place is filled. 



No more ! 
[Angels vanish. 



Evil Spirit in a Nun's garb by the bed. 
Forbear that dream — forbear that 
dream! too near to Heaven it leaned. 
Onora in sleep. 
Nay, leave me this — but only this 1 'tis 
but a dream, sweet fiend 1 
Evil Spirit. 
It is a thought. 
Onora in sleep. 

A sleeping thought — most innocent 
of good — 
It doth the Devil no harm, sweet fiend 1 

it cannot, if it would. 
I say in it no holy hymn, — I do no holy 

work ; 
I scarcely hear the sabbath-bell that 
chimeth from the kirk. 
Evil Spirit. 
Forbear that dream — forbear that 
dream ! 
Onora in sleep. 

Nay, let me dreatn at least : 
That far-off bell, it may be took for viol 

at a feast — 
I only walk among the fields, beneath 

the autumn-sun. 
With my dead father, hand in hand, as 
I have often done. 
Evil Spirit. 
Forbear that dream — forbear that 
dream ! 
Onora in sleep. 

Nay, sweet fiend, let me go — 
I never more can walk with hitn, O 

nevermore but so : 
Oh, deep and straight ; oh, very straight ! 

they move at nights alone : 
And then he calleth through my dreams, 

he calleth tenderly, 
' Come forth, my daughter, my beloved, 
and walk the fields with me !' 
EvitSpirit. 
Forbear that dream, or else disprove its 
pureness by a sign. 
Onora in sleep. 
Speak on, thou shalt be satisfied ! my 
word shall answer thine. 



ai4 



THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 



I hear a bird which used to sing when I 

a child was praying ; 
I see the poppies in the corn I used to 

sport away in. 
What shall I do — tread down the dew, 

and pull the blossoms blowing? 
Or clap my wicked hands to fright the 

finches from the rowen ? 
Ez'il Spirit. 
Thou shalt do something harder still : 

stand up where thou dost stand 
Among the fields of Dreamland with 

thy father hand in hand. 
And clear and slow, repeat the vow — 

declare its cause and kind. 
Which, not to break, in sleep or wake, 

thou bearest on thy mind. 
Onora in sleep. 
I bear a vow of sinful kind, a vow for 

mournful cause: 
I vowed it deep, 1 vowed it strong — the 

spirits laughed applause : 
The spirits trailed along the pines low 

laughter like a breeze. 
While, high atween their swinging tops 

the stars appeared to freeze. 
Evil Spirit. 
More calm and free, — speak out to me, 

why such a vow was made. 
Onora in sleep. 
Because that God decreed my death, 

and I shrank back afraid : 
Have patience, O dead father mine ! I 

did not fear to die ; 
I wish I were a young dead child, and 

had thy company ! 
I wish I lay beside thy feet, a buried 

three-year child. 
And wearing only a kiss of thine upon 

my lips that smiled ! 
The linden tree that covers thcc might 

so have sheltered twain — 
For death itself I did not fear — 'tis love 

that makes the pain. 
Love feareth death. I was no child — I 

was betrotlied that day ; 
I wore a troth -kiss on my lips I could 

not give away. 
How could I bear to lie content and still 

beneath a stone. 
And feel mine own Betrothed go by — 

alas ! no more mine own, — 
Go leading by in wedding pomp some 

lovely lady brave. 



With cheeks that blushed as red as rose, 

while mine were white in grave ? 
How could I bear to sit in Heaven, on 

e'er so high a throne, ^ 

And hear him say to her — to her .' ihat"^ 

else he loveth none ? 
Though e'er so high I sate above, though 

e'er so low he spake. 
As clear as thunder I should hear the 

new oath he might take — 
That hers, forsooth, are heavenly eyes, 

— ah, me ! while very dim 
Some heavenly eyes (indeed of Heaven I) 

would darken down to /«/;«. 
Evil Spirit. 
Who told thee thou wast called to death 1 
Onora in sleep. i 

1 sat all night beside thee — 
The gray owl on the ruined wall shut 

both his eyes to hide thee ; 
And ever he flapped his heavy wing all 

brokenly and weak. 
And the long grass waved against the 

sky, around his gasping beak. ..i 

I sate beside thee all the night, while the | 

moonlight lay forlorn, ( 

Strewn round us like a dead world's i 

shroud, in ghastly fragments torn. j 
And through the night, and through the 

hush, and over the flapping wing, ■ 
We heard beside the Heavenly Gate ' 

the angels murmuring : — 
We heard them say, ' Put day to day, 

and count the days to seven, 
' And God will draw Onora up the gold- 
en stairs of Heaven : ' 
' And yet the evil ones have leave that 

purpose to defer, 
' For if she has no need of Him, He has 

no need oi her' — _- 

Evil Spirit. 
Speak out to me — speak bold and free. 
Onora in sleep 

And then I heard thee say, — 
' I count upon my rosarie brown thft j 

hours thou hast to stay ! i 

' Yet God permits us evil ones to put by' 

that decree, 
'Since if thou hast no need of Him, he 

has no need of thee — 
'And if thou wilt forego the sight of an- 
gels, verily 
' Thy true love gazing on thy face, shall 

guess what angels be — 



THE LAY OF THE BROIVN ROSARY. 



"5 



Nor bride shall pass save thee' . . . 

Alas ! my father's hand's acold — 
Tue meadows seem. . . . 

Evil Spirit. 
Forbear the dream, or let the vow be 

told ! 
Onora in sleep. 
1 vowed upoa thy rosarie brown, this 

string ot antique beads. 
By charnel lichens overgrown, and dank 

among the weeds — 
This rosarie brown which is thine own, — 

lost soul of buried nun. 
Who, lost by vow, wouldst render now 

all souls alike undone ; — 
I vowed upon thy rosarie brown, — and, 

till such vow should break, 
A pledge always of living days, 'twas 

hung around my neck — 
I vowed to thee on rosarie, (Dead father, 

look not so !) 
Iiuohld not thank God in myweal, nor 

seek God in my wo. 
Evil Spirit. 
And canst thou prove .... 
Onora in sleep. 

love— my love ! I felt him near again ! 

1 saw his steed on mountain-head, I 

heard it on the plain ! 
Was this no weal for me to feel ? — is 

greater weal than this ? 
Yet when he came, I wept his name — 

and the angels heard but his. 
Evil Spirit. 
Well done, well done ! 

Onora in sleep. 
Ay me ! the sun . . . the dreamlight 

'gins to pine, — 
Ay me ! how dread can look the Dead ! 

— Aroint thee, father mine ! 

She starteth from slumber, she sitteth 

upright. 
And her breath comes in sobs while she 

stares through the night : 
There is nought. The great willow, 

her lattice before, 
Large-drawn in the moon, lieth calm on 

the floor ; 
]3ut her hands tremble fast as their 

pulses, and free 
From the death-clasp, close over — the 

UKOWN KOSARIE. 



THIRD PART. 

'Tis a morn for a bridal ; the merry 

bride-bell 
Rings clear through the green-wood that 

skirts the chapelle ; 
And the priest at the altar awaiteth the 

bride. 
And the sacristans slyly are jestmg aside 
At the work shall be doing. 

While down through the wood rides 

that fair company, 
The youths with the courtship, the maids 

with the glee, 
Till the chapel-cross opens to sight, and 

at once 
All the maids sigh demurely, and think 

for the nonce, 
' And so endeth a wooing ! ' 

And the bride and the bridegroom are 
leading the way, 

With his hand on her rein, and a word 
yet to say : 

Her dropt eyelids suggest the soft an- 
swers beneath. 

And the little quick smiles come and go 
with her breath, 
When she sigheth or speaketh. 

And the tender bride-mother breaks oflT 

imaware 
From an Ave, to think that her daughter 

is fair, 
Till in nearing the chapel, and glancing 

before. 
She seeth her litde son stand at the door. 
Is it play that he seeketh ? 

Is it play ? when his eyes wander inno- 
cent-wild, 

And sublimed with a sadness unfitting a 
child ! 

He trembles not, weeps not — the passion 
is done. 

And calmly he kneels in their midst, 
with the sun 
On his head like a glory. 

' O fair-featured maids, ye are many I ' 
he cried, — 



THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 



' But, in fairness and vilcness, who 

matchetli the hrido ? 
O hnive-hoartcd youtlis, ye arc many, 

but whom. 
For tlie courage and woe, can ye match 

with the groom, 

As ye see thom before ye ? ' 

Oitt snake the bride's mother — 'The 
vileness is thine. 

If thou shame thine own sister, a bride 
at the shrine ! ' 

Out spake the bride's lover — ' The vile- 
ness be mine. 

If he shame mme own wife at the hearth 
or the shrine. 

And the cliarge be improved. 

• Bring the charge, prove the charge, 

brother ! speak it aloud — 
Let thy father and hers, hear it deep in 

liis shroud ! ' 
— * O f^ither. thou seest — foe dead eyes 

can see — 
How she wears on her bosom a brmvn 

rosarie, 

O ray father beloved ! ' 

Then outlaughed tlic bridegroom, and 

outlauq;hed withal 
Both maidens and youths, by the old 

chapel wall — 

• So she wcareth no love-gift, kind 

brother,' quoth he, 

• She may wear an she listeth, a brown 

rosarie. 

Like a pure-hearted lady 1' 

Then swept through the chapel the long 
bridal train : 

Though he spake to the bride she re- 
plied not again: 

On, as one in a dream, pale and stately 
she went 

Where the altar-lights burn o'er the 
great sacrament. 

Faint with daylight, but steady. 

But her brother had passed in between 
them and her. 

And calmly knelt down on the high- 
altar stair — 

Of an infantine aspect so stern to the 
view. 



That the priest could not smile on the 
child's eyes of blue 
As he would for another. 

He knelt like a child marble-sculptured 

and white, 
I'hat seems kneeling to pray on the 

tomb of a knight. 
With a look taken up to each iris of 

stone 
From the greatness and death where he 

kneeleth, but none 

From the face of a mother. 

' In your chapel, O priost, ye have wed- 
ded and shriven 

Fair wives for the hearth, and fair sin- 
nei-s for Heaven I 

But this fairest my sister, ye think now 
to wed. 

Bid her kneel where she standeth, and 
shrive her instead — 

O shrive her and wed not i' 

In tears, the bride's mother, — ' Sir priest, 
unto thee 

Would he lie, as he lied to this fair com- 
pany !' 

In wrath, the bride's lover, — The lie 
shall 1)0 clear ! 

Speak it out, boy ! the saints in their 
niches shall hear — 

Be the charge proved or said not !' 

Then serene in his childhood he lifted 

his face. 
And his voice sounded holy and fit for 

the place — 
' Look down from your niches, ye still 

saints, and see 
How she wears on her bosom a brmvn 

rosarie ! 

Is it used for the praying V 

The youths looked aside — to laugh there 
were a sin — 

And the maidens' lips trembled with 
smiles shut within: 

Quoth the priest — ' Thou art wild, pret- 
ty boy ! Blessed she 



Who pre 



>y ! lile: 
fers at ht 



her bridal a brown rosa- 



To a worldly arraying l* 



THE LAY OF THE UliOlVN ROSARY. 



217 



The bridegroom spake low and led on- 
ward the bride. 

And before the high altar they stwd 
side by side: 

'Jhe rile-book u opened, the rite is be- 
gun— 

'I'hey have knelt down together to rise 
up as one — 
Who laughed by the altar ? 

The maidens looked forward, the youths 
looked around. 

The bridegroom's eye flashed from his 
prayer at the sound ; 

And each saw the bride, as if no bride 
she were, 

Gazing cold at the priest without ges- 
ture of prayer. 
As he read from the psalter. 

The priest never knew that she did so, 

but still 
lie felt a power on him too strong for 

Ills will ; 
And whenever the Great Name was 

there to be read, 
His voice sank to silence — ihat could 

not be said, 
(Jr the air could not hold it. 

' I have sinned,' quoth he, ' I have sin- 
ned, I wot' — 

And the tears ran adown liLs old cheeks 
at the thought ; 

They dropped fast on the book ; but he 
read on the same. 

And aye was the silence where should 
be the Name, 
As the choristers told it. 

The rite-book is closed, and the rite 

being done. 
They who knelt down together, arise 

up as one : 
Fair riseth the bride — Oh, a fair bride 

is she,— 
But, for all (think the maidens) that 

brown rosarie. 
No saint at her praying ! 

What ailcth the bridegroom ? He glares 

blank and wide — 
Then suddenly turning, he kisscth the 

bride-' 



His lip stung her with cold : she glanced 

upwardly mute : 
' Mine own wife,' he said, and fell stark 
at her foot 
In the word he was saying. 

They have lifted him up, — but his head 
sinks away. 

And his face slioweth bleak in the sun- 
shine and gray. 

I^eave him now where he lieth — for oh, 
nevermore 

Will he kneel at an altar or stand on a 
floor ! 
Let his bride gaze upon liim ! 

Long and still was her gaze, while they 

chafed him there. 
And breathed in the mouth whr^se last 

life /lad kissed her: 
But when they stood up — only ihcyl 

with a .start 
The shriek from licr soul struck her 

pale lips apart — 
She has lived, and foregone him ! 

And low on his body .she droppeth 

adown — 
' Didst call mc thine own wife, beloved 

— thine own ? 
Then take thine own with thee 1 thy 

coldness is warm 
To the world's cold without thee ! Come, 

keep me from harm 
In a calm of thy teaching ! * 

She looked in his face earnest long, as 

in sooth 
Tliere were hope of an answer, — and 

then kissed his mouth ; 
And with head on hisbosorn, wept, wept 

bitterly,— 
'Now, O God, take pity — take pity on 

me ! — 
Cod, hear my beseeching ! ' 

She >yas 'ware of a shadow that crossed 
where she lay ; 

She was 'ware of a presence that with- 
er'd the day — 

Wild she sprang to her feel, — ' I surren- 
der to thee 

Tliel;roken vow's pledge, — the accursed 
rosarie, — 
I am ready for dying 1 ' 



THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY. 



She dashed it in scorn to the marble- 
paved ground, 

Where it fell mute as snow ; and a 
weird music-sound 

Crept up, like a chill, up the aisles long 
and dim, — 

As the fiends tried to mock at the chor- 
ister's hymn 
And moaned in the trying. 



FOURTH PART. 

Onora looketh listlessly adown the gar- 
den walk : 

' I am weary, O my mother, of thy ten- 
der talk 1 

I am weary of the trees a-waving to and 
fro — 

Of the steadfast skies above, the running 
brooks below ; 

All things are the same but I ; — only I 
am dreary ; 

And, mother, of my dreariness behold 
me very weary. 

'Mother, brother, pull the flowers I 
planted in the spring. 

And smiled to think I should smile more 
upon their gathering. 

The bees will find out other flowers — 
oh, pull them dearest mine. 

And carry them and carry me before St. 
Agnes' shrine.' 

— Whereat they pulled the summer flow- 
ers she planted in the spring, 

And her and them all mournfully to 
Agnes' shrine did bring. 

She looked up to the pictured saint and 

gently shook her head — 
'The picture is too calm for me — too 

calm for vie^ she said : 
' The little flowers we brought with us, 

before it we may lay. 
For those are used to look at heaven, — 

but /must turn away — 
Because no sinner under sun can dare or 

bear to gaze 
On God's or angel'b holiness, except in 

Jesu's face.' 



She spoke with passion after pause— 
' And were it wisely done. 

If we who cannot gaze above, should 
walk the earth alone ? 

If we whose virtue is so weak, should 
have a will so strong. 

And stand blind on the rocks, to choose 
the right path from the wrong ? 

To choose perhaps a love-lit hearth, in- 
stead of love and Heaven, — 

A single rose, for a rose-tree, which 
beareth seven times seven ? 

A rose that droppeth from the hand, that 
fadeth in the breast. 

Until, in grieving for the worst, we learn 
what is the best !' 



Then breaking into tears, — 'Dear God,' 

she cried, ' and must we see 
All blissful things depart from us, or ere 

we go to Thee ? 
We cannot guess thee in the wood, or 

hear thee in the wind ? 
Our cedars must fall round us, ere we 

see the light behind ? 
Ay, sooth, we feel too strong in weal, to 

need thee on that road ; 
But wo being come, the soul is dumb 

that crieth not on ' God.' ' 



Her mother could not spe: k for tears;" 

she ever mused thus — 
' The bees will find out other Jlmvers, — 

but what is left for us f 
But her young brother stayed his sobs 

and knelt beside her knee. 
Thou sweetest sister in the world, hast 

never a word for me ? ' 
She passed her hand across his face, she 

pressed it on his cheek. 
So tenderly, so tenderly — she needed 

not to speak. 

The wreath which lay on shrine that 

day, at vespers bloomed no more — 
The woman fair who placed it there, 

had died an hour before. 
Both perished mute, for lack of root, 

earth's nourishment to reach ; 
O reader breathe (the ballad saith) some 

sweetness out of each I 



A VISION OF POEXa 



Sacred Esflence, lighting mc this hour, 
How may I liglitly stile thy great power? 

Eclio. Power. 

Power ! but of whence 7 under the greenwood epraye? 

Or liv'st in Heaven 7 saye. 
Echo. In Heavens aye. 

In He.nvens aye I tell, in.iy I it obtayne 

By alms, by lasting, prayer,— by palue ? 
Echo. By palue. 

Show me the palne, it shall be undergone : 

1 to my end will still go ou. 

Echo. Go on. 

Britannia's Pastorals. 



A POET could not sleep aright. 
For his soul kept up too much light 
Under his eyelids for the night : 

And thus he rose disquieted 

With sweet rhymes ringing through his 

head. 
And in the forest wandered ; 

Where, sloping up the darkest glades. 
The moon had drawn long colonnades, 
Upon whose floor the verdure fades 

To a faint silver : pavement fair. 

The antique wood-nymphs scarce would 

dare • 

To footprint o'er, had such been there, 

And rather sit by breathlessly. 
With tears in their large eyes to see 
The consecrated sight. But he 

The poet — who with spirit-kiss 
Familiar, had long claimed for his 
Whatever earthly beauty is. 

Who also in his spirit bore 

A Beauty passing the earth's store. 

Walked calmly onward evermore. 

His aimless thoughts in metre went. 
Like a babe's hand without intent 
Drawn down .a seven-stringed instru- 
ment 

Nor jarred it with his humor as, 
With a faint stirring of the grass. 
An apparition fair did pass. 



He might have feared another time. 
But all things fair and strange did chime 
With his thoughts then — as rhyme to 
rhyme. 

An angel had not startled him. 
Alighted from Heaven's burning rim 
To breathe from glory in the Dim — 

Much less a lady riding slow 

Upon a palfrey white as snow. 

And smooth as a snow-cloud could go. 

Full upon his she turned her face — 
' What, ho, sir poet ! dost thou pace 
Our woods at night, in ghostly chase 

' Of some fair Dryad of old tales. 
Who chants between the nightingales. 
And over sleep by song prevails V 

She smiled ; but he could see arise 
Her soul from far adown her eyes. 
Prepared as if for sacrifice. 

She looked a queen who seemeth gay 
From royal grace alone: 'Now, nay,' 
He answered, — ' slumber passed away. 

Compelled by instincts in my head 
That I should see to-night instead 
Of a fair nymph, some fairer Dread.' 

She looked up quickly to the sky 
And spake: — ' The moon's regality 
Will hear no praise ! she is as I. 



A VIS/ON OF POETS. 



' She is in heaven, and I on earth; 
This is my kingdom — I come forth 
To crown all poets to their worth.' 

He brake in with a voice that mourned — 

• To their worth, ladyl They are scorned 
By men they sing for, till inurned. 

• To their worth I Beauty in the mind 
Leaves the hearth cold ; and love re- 
fined 

Ambitions make the world unkind. 

' The boor who ploughs the daisy down, 
The chief whose mortgage of renown 
Fixed upon graves, has bought a crown — 

' Both these are happier, more approved 
Than poets! — Why should I be moved 
In saying both arc more beloved ? 

• The south can judge not of the north ;' 
She resumed calmly — ' I come forth 

To crown all poets to their worth. 

' Yea, verily, and to anoint them all 
With blessed oils which surely shall 
Smell sweeter as the ages fall.' 

'As sweet,' the poet said, and rung 

A low sad laugh, ' as flowers are, sprung 

Out of their graves when they die young. 

'As sweet as window eglantine — 
Some bough of which, as they decline. 
The hired nurse gathers at their sign. 

'As sweet, in short, as perfumed shroud 
Which the gay Roman maidens sewed 
P'or English Keats, singing aloud.' 

The lady answered, ' Yea, as sweet ! 
The things thou namest being complete 
In fragrance as I measure it. 

' Since sweet the death-clothes and the 

knell 
Of him who having lived, dies well, — 
And holy sweet the asphodel 

' Stirred softly by that foot of his, 
When he treads brave on all that is. 
Into the world of souls, from this ! 



• Since sweet the tears, dropped at th« 

door 
Of tearless Death, — and even before : 
Sweet, consecrated evermore I 

• What I dost thou judge it a strange 

thing. 
That poets, crowned for vanquishing. 
Should bear some dust from out the ring? 

' Come on with me, come on with me ; 
And learn in coming ! Let me free 
Thy spirit into verity.' 

She ce.xsed : her palfrey's paces .sent 
No separate noises as she went, 
'Twas a bee's hum — a little spent. 

And while the poet seemed to tiead 
Along the drowsy noise so made, 
The forest heaved up overhead 

Its billowy foliage through the air, 
And the calm stars did, far and spare 
O'er-swim the masses everywhere ; 

Save when the overtopping pines 
Did bar their tremulous light with lines 
All fixed and black. Now the moon 
shines 

A broader glory. You may see 
The trees grow rarer presently. 
The air blows up more fresh and free : 

Until they come from dark to light. 
And from the forest to the sight 
Of the large Heaven-heart, bare with 
niglit, — 

A fiery throb in every star. 
Those burning arteries that arc 
The conduits of God's life afar. 

A wild brown moorland underneath. 
And four pools breaking up the heath 
With white low gleamings, blank as 
death. 

Beside the first pool, near the wood, 
A dead tree in set horror stood. 
Peeled and disjointed, stark as rood ; 



A VISION OF POETS. 



Since thunder stricken, years ago, 
Fixed in the spectral strain and throe 
Wherewith it struggled from the blow : 

A monumental tree . . . alone. 

That will not bend in storms, nor groan. 

But break off sudden like a stone. 

Its lifeless shadow lies oblique 
Upon the pool, — where, javelin-like, 
The star-rays quiver while they strike. 

' Drink,' said the lady, very still — 
' Be holy and cold.' He did her will, 
And drank the starry water chill. 

The next pool they came near unto, 
Was bare of trees ; there, only grew 
Straight flags and lilies just a few. 

Which sullQn on the waters sat 
And leant their faces on the flat. 
As weary of the starlight-state. 

' Drink,' said the lady, grave and slow, 
' World's use behoveth thee to know.' 
He drank the bitter wave below. 

The third pool, girt with thorny bushes, 
And flaunting weeds, and reeds and 

rushes 
That winds sang through in mournful 

gushes, 

Was whitely smeared in many a round 
By a slow slime : the starlight swound 
Over the ghastly light it found. 

' Drink,' said the lady, sad and slow — 
' World's love behoveth thee to know.' 
He looked to her, commanding so. 

Her brow was troubled, but her eye 
Struck clear to his soul. For all reply 
He drank the water suddenly, — 

Then, with a deathly sickness, passed 
Beside the fourth pool and the last. 
Where weights of shadow were down- 
cast 

From yew and alder, and rank trails 
Of nightshade clasping the trunk-scales. 
And flung across the intervals 



From yew to yew. Who dares to stoop 
Where those dank branches overdroop 
Into his heart the chill strikes up : 

He hears a silent gliding coil — 

The snakes strain hard against the soil— 

His foot slips in their slimy oil : 

And toads seem crawling on his hand, 
And clinging bats, but dimly scanned, 
Right in his face their wings expand. 

A paleness took the poet's cheek ; 

* Must I drink here ?' he seemed to seek 

The lady's will with utterance meek. 

'Ay, ay, 'she said, ' it so must be' 
(And this time she spake cheerfully) 
' Behoves thee know World's cruelty.' 

He bowed his forehead till his mouth 
Curved in the wave, and drank unloth. 
As if from rivers of the south. 

His lips sobbed through the water rank, 
His heart paused in him while he drank. 
His brain beat heart-like — rose and sank, 

And he swooned backward to a dream. 
Wherein he lay 'twixt gloom and gleam, 
With Death and Life at each extreme. 

And spiritual thunders, bom of soul 
Not cloud, did leap from mystic pole 
And o'er him roll and counter-roll. 

Crushing their echoes reboant 

With their own wheels. Did Heaven 

so grant 
His spirit a sign of covenant ? 

At last came silence. A .slow kiss 
Did crown his forehead after this : 
His eyelids flew back for the blLss. 

The lady stood beside his head. 
Smiling a thought, with hair dispread. 
The moonshine .seemed dishevelled 

In her sleek tresses manifold ; 
Like Danae's in the rain of old. 
That dripped with melancholy gold. 



A VISION OF POETS. 



But SHE was holj', pale, and high — 
As one who saw an ecstasy 
Beyond a foretold agony. 

' Rise up !' said she, with voice where 

song 
Eddied through speech—' rise up ! he 

strong : 
And learn how right avengeth wrong.' 

The poet rose up on his feet: 
He stood before an altar set 
For sacrament, with vessels meet, 

And mystic altarlights which shine 
As if their flames were crystalhne 
Carved flames that would not shrink or 
pine. 

The altar filled the central place 

Of a great church, and towards its face 

Long aisles did shoot and interlace. 

And from it a continuous mist 
Of incense (round the edges kissed 
By a yellow light of amethyst) 

Wound upward slowly and throbbingly. 
Cloud within cloud, right silverly, 
Cloud above cloud, victoriously. 

Broke full .igalnst the arched roof, 
And, thence refracting, eddied ofl", 
And floated through the marble woof 

Of many a fine-wrought architrave, 
Then, poising the white masses brave. 
Swept solemnly down aisle and nave. 

And now in dark, and now in light, 
The countless columns, glimmering 

white. 
Seemed leading out to the Infinite. 

Plunged half-way up the shaft they 

showed. 
In that pale shifting inscnse-cloud 
Which flowed them by, and overflowed. 

Till mist and marble seemed to blend, 
And the whole temple, at the end. 
With its own incense to distend ; 



The arches, like a giant's bow, 
To bend and slacken, — and belovr 
The niched saints to come and go. 

Alone, amid the shifting scene. 
That central altar stood serene 
In Its clear steadfast taper-sheen. 

Then first, the poet was aware 
Of a chief angel standing there 
Before that altar, in the glare. 

His eyes were dreadful, for you saw 
That they saw God — his lips and jaw. 
Grand-made and strong as Sinai's Law. 

They could enunciate and refrain 

From vibratory after-pain ; 

And his brows height was sovereign — 

On the vast background of his wings 

Arose his image, and he flings, 

From each plumed arc, pale glittering* 

And fiery flakes (as beateth more 
Or less, the angel -heart) before 
And round him, upon roof and floor. 

Edging with fire the shifting fumes : 
While at his side, 'twixt lights and 

glooms. 
The phantasm of an organ booms. 

Extending from which instrument 
And angel, right and left way bent. 
The poet's sigh grew sentient 

Of a strange company around. 

And toward the altar, — pale and bound 

With bay above the eye profound. 

Deathful their faces were ; and yet 
The power of life was in them set — 
Never forgot, nor to forget. 

Sublime significance of mouth. 

Dilated nostril full of youth. 

And forehead royal with the truth. 

These faces were not multiplied 
Beyond your coimt, but side by side 
Did front the altar, glorified : 



/ 



A P'JSION- OF POETS. 



Still as a vision, yet exprest 
Full as an action — look and geste 
Of buried saint in risen rest. 

The poet knew them. Faint and dim 
His spirit seemed to sink in him, 
Then, like a dolphin, change and swim 

The current— These were poets true 
Who died lor Beauty, as martyrs do 
For truth — the ends being scarcely two, 

God's prophets of the Beautiful 
These poets were — of iron rule. 
The ruggedcilix, serge of wool. 

Here Homer, with the broad suspense 
Of thunderous brows, and lips intense 
Of garrulous god-innocence. 

There, Shakspeare 1 on whose forehead 
climb 

The crowns o' the world I Oh, eyes sub- 
lime — 

With tears and laughters for all time 1 

Here, ^^chylus, — the women swooned 

To see so awful when he frowned 

As the gods did, — he standeth crowned. 

Euripides, with close and mild 
Scholastic lips, — that could be wild. 
And laugh or sob out like a child 

Even in the classes. Sophocles, 

With that king's look which down tl^.e 

trees. 
Followed the dark effigies 

Of the lost Theban. Hesiod old. 
Who somewhat blind and deaf and 

cold. 
Cared most for gods and bulls. And 

bold 

Electric Pindar, quick as fear, 

With race-dust on his cheeks, and clear 

Slant startled eyes that seem to hear 

The chariot rounding the last goal, 
To hurtle past it in his soul : 
And bappho, with that gloriole 



Of ebon hair on calmed brows — 
O poet-woman none foregoes 
The leap attaining the repose I 

Theocritus, with glittering locks 
Dropt sideway, as betwixt the rocks 
He watched tlie visionary flocks. 

And Aristophanes : who took 
The world with mirth, and laughter- 
struck 
The hollow caves of Thought and woke 

The infinite echoes hid in each. 

And Virgil : shade of Mantuan beech 

Did help the shade of bay to reach 

And knit around his forehead high. 
For his gods wore less majesty 
Than his brown bees hummed death- 
lessly. 

Lucretius — nobler than his mood : 
Who dropped his plummet down the 

broad 
Deep universe, and said ' No God,' 

Finding no bottom : he denied 
Divmely the Divine, and died 
Chief poet on the Tiber side 

By grace of God I his face is stern. 
As one compelled, in spite of scorn. 
To teach a truth he could not learn. _ 

And Ossian, dimly seen or guessed : 
Once counted greater than the rest. 
When mountain-winds blew out his vest. 

And Spencer cfrooped his dreaming head 
(With languid sleep-smile you had said 
From his own verse engendered) 

On Ariosto's, till they ran 
Their curls in one : — The Italian 
Shot nimbler heat of bolder man 

From his fine lids. And Dante stern 
And sweet, whose spirit was an urn 
For wine and milk poured out in turn, 

Hard-souled Alfieri ; and fancy-willed 
Boiardo, — who wi!:h daughter filled 
The pauses of the jostled shield. 



A F/S/OJV OF POETS, 



And Berni, with a hand stretched out 
To sleek that storm : And not without 
The wreath he died in, and the doubt 

He died by, Tasso ; bard and lover, 
Whose visions were too thin to cover 
'I'he face of a false woman over. 

And soft Racine, — and grave Corneille, 
The orator of rhj'mes, whose wail 
Scarce shook his purple. And Petrarch 
pale, 

From whose brainlighted heart were 

thrown 
A thousand thoughts beneath-thc sun. 
Each lucid with the name of One. 

And Camoens, with that look he had, 
Compelling India's Genius sad 
From the wave through the Lusiad, 

With murmurs of the storm-cape ocean 

Indrawn in vibrative emotion 

Along the verse. And while devotion 

In his wild eyes fantastic shone 
Under the tonsure blown upon 
By airs celestial,— Calderon : 

And bold Dc Vega, — who breathed 

quick 
Verse after verse, till death's old trick 
Put pause to life and rhetoric. 

And Goethe — with that reaching eye 
His soul reached out from, far and high, 
And fell from inner entity. 

And Schiller, with heroic front 
Worthy of Plutarch's kiss upou't — 
Too large for wreath of modern wont. 

And Chaucer, with his infantine 
Familiar clasp of things divine — 
That mark upon his lip is wine. 

Here Milton's eyes strike piercing-dim : 
The shapes of suns and stars did swim 
Like clouds from them and granted him 

God for sole vision ! Cowley, there, 
Whose active fancy debonaire 
Drew straws like amber — foul to fair. 



Drayton and Browne, — with smiles they 

drew 
From outward Nature, still kept new 
From their own inward nature true. 

And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben — 
Whese fire-hearts sowed our furrow;* 

when 
The world was worthy of such men. 

And Burns, with pungent passionings 
Set in his eyes. Deep IjtIc springs 
Are of the fire-mount's issulngs. 

And Shelley, in his white ideal. 

All statue blind ; and Keats, the real 

Adonis, with the hymeneal 

Fresh vernal buds half sunk between 
His youthful curls, kissed straight and 

sheen 
In his Rome-grave, by Venus queen. 

And poor, proud Byron, — sad as grave 
And salt as life : forlornly brave. 
And quivering with the dart he drave. 

And visionary Coleridge, who 

J:)Id sweep his thoughts as angels do 

Their wings, with cadence up the Blue. 

The poets faced, and many more. 

The lighted altar looming o'er 

The clouds of incense dim and hoar : 

And all their faces, in the lull 

Of natural things, looked wonderful 

With life and death and deathless rule : 

All still .as stone, and yet intense ; 
As if by .spirit's vehemence 
That stone were carved, and not by 
sense. 

But where the heart of each should beat, 
There seemed a woi¥id instead of it. 
From whence the .blood dropped to 
their feet. 

Drop after drop— dropped heavily 
As century follows century 
Into the deep eternity. 



A VISION OF POETS. 



Then said the lady, — and her word 
Came distant,— as wide waves were 

stirred 
Between her and the ear that heard : 

' IVorld's use is cold. World's love is 

vain, 
World's cruelty is bitter bane ; 
Uut pain is not the fruit of pain. 

' Hearken, O poet, whom I led 

From the dark wood ! Dismissing dread. 

Now hear this angel in my stead : 

' His organ's clavier strikes along 
These poet's hearts, sonorous, strong. 
They gave him without count of wrong— 

' A diapason whence to guide 

Up to God's feet, from those who died. 

An anthem fully glorified : 

' Whereat God's blessing .... Ibarak 
Breathes back this music — folds it back 
About the earth iu vapoury rack, 

' And men walk in it, crying ' Lo 1 
'I'he world is wider, and we know 
' The very heavens look brighter so. 

' ' The stars move statelier round the 

edge 
' Of the silver spheres, and give in 

pledge 
' Their light for nobler privilege. 

' ' No little flower but joys or grieves, 
' Full life is rusthng in the sheaves ; 
' Full spirit sweeps the forest-leaves.' 

' So works this music on the earth : 
God so admits it, sends it forth. 
To another worth to worth — 

' A new creation-bloom that rounds 
The old creation, and e.xpounds 
His Beautiful in timeful sounds. 

' Now hearken !' Then the poet gazed 
Upon the angel glorious-faced, 
Whose hand, majestically raised. 

Floated across the organ-keys. 

Like a pale moon o'er murmuring seas. 

With no touch but with influences. 



Then rose and fell (with swell and 

swound 
Of shapeless noises wandering round 
A concord which at last they found) 

Those mystic keys — the tones were 

mixed. 
Dim, faint ; and thrilled and throbbed 

betwixt 
The incomplete and the unfixed : 

And therein mighty minds were heard 
In mighty musings, inly stirred. 
And struggling outward for a word. 

Until these surges, having run 
This way and that, gave out as one 
An Aphrodite of sweet tune, — 

A Harmony that, finding vent. 
Upward in grand ascension went. 
Winged to a heavenly argument — 

Up, upward ! like a saint who strips 
The shroud back from his eyes and lips. 
And rises in apocalypse : 

A Harmony sublime and plain. 
Which cleft (as flying swan, the rain,— 
Throwing the drops off with a strain 

Of her white wing) those undertones 
Of perplext chords, and soared at once 
And struck out from the starry thrones 

Their several silver octaves, as 

It passed to God : The music was 

Of divine stature — strong to pass : 

And those who heard it, understood 
Something of life in spirit and blood — 
Something of Nature's fair and good. 

And while it sounded, those great souls 
Did thrill as racers at the goals. 
And burn in all their aureoles. 

But she, the lady, as vapor-bound. 
Stood calmly in the joy of sound, — 
Like nature with the showers around. 

And when it ceased, the blood which 
fell. 



£26 



A VISION OF POETS, 



Again, alone grew audible, 
Tolling the silence as a bell. 

The sovran angel lifted high 

His hand and spake out sovranly — 

* Tried poets, hearken and reply 1 

' Give me true answers. If we grant 
That not to suffer, is to want 
The conscience of the Jubilant, — 

' If ignorance of anguish is 

Btit ignorance ; and mortals miss 

Far prospects, by a level bliss, — 

' If as two colors must be viewed 
In a visible image, mortals should 
Need good and evil, to see good, — 

' If to speak nobly, comprehends 

To feel profoundly — if the ends 

Of power and suffering. Nature blends,— 

' If poets on the tripod must 
Writhe like the Python, to make just 
Their oracles, and merit trust, — 

' If every vatic word that sweeps 

To change the world, must pale their lips, 

And leave their own souls in eclipse — 

• If to search deep the universe 

Must pierce the searcher with the 

curse, — 
Because that bolt (in man's reverse,) 

' Was shot to the heart of the wood and 

lies 
Wedged deepest in the best : — if eyes 
That look for visions and surprise 

' From influent angels, must shut down 
Their lids first, upon sun and moon, 
The head asleep upon a stone, — 

' If One who did redeem you back, 
By His own loss from final wrack. 
Did consecrate by touch and track 

' Those temporal sorrows, till the taste 
Of brackish waters of the waste 
Is salt with tears He dropt too fast, — 



'If all the crowns of eartli must wound 
With prickings of the thorns He found, — 
If saddest sighs swell sweetest sound, — 

"^ What say ye unto tkis? — refuse 
This baptism in salt water ? — choose 
Calm breasts, mute lips, and labor loose? 

' Or, oh ye gifted givers ! ye 
Who give your liberal hearts to me, 
To make the world this harmony. 

Are ye resigned that they be spent 
To such world's help ?" — 

The Spirits bent 
Their awful brows and said — ' Content 1' 

Content 1 it sounded like Amen, 
Said by a choir of mourning men— - 
An affirmation full of pain 

And patience : — ay, of glorying 
And adoration, — as a king 
Might seal an oath for governing. 

1 hen said the angel — and his face 
Lightened abroad, until the place 
Grew larger for a moment's space, — 

The long aisles flashing out in light. 
And nave and transept, columns white 
And arches crossed, being clear to sight 

As if the roof were off, and all 
Stood in the noon-sun, — ' Lo ! I call 
To other hearts as liberal. 

' This pedal strikes out in the air : 
My instrument has room to bear 
Still fuller strains and perfecter, 

• Herein is room, and shall be room 
While Time lasts, for new hearts to come 
Consummating while they consume. 

' What living man will bring a gift 
Of his own heart, and help to lift 
The tune ? — The race is to the swift ! ' 

So asked the angel. Straight thewliile, 

A company came up the aisle 

With measured steji and sorted smde ; 



A VISION OF POETS. 



227 



Cleaving the incense-clouds that rise. 
With winking unaccustomed eyes. 
And love-locks smelling sweet of spice. 

One bore his head above the rest. 
As if the world were dispossessed — 
And one did pillow chin on breast. 

Right languid — an as he should faint ! 
One shook his curls across his paint. 
And moralized on worldly taint. 

One, slanting up his face, did wink 
The salt rheum to the eyelid's brink. 
To think — O gods ! or — not to think ! 

Some trod out stealthily and slow. 
As if the sun would fall in snow 
If they walked to instead of fro. 

And some with conscious ambling free. 
Did shake their bells right daintily 
On hand and foot for harmony. 

And some composing sudden sighs 
In attitudes of point-device. 
Rehearsed impromptu agonies. 

And when this company drew near 
The spirits crowned, it might appear 
Submitted to a ghastly fear. 

As a sane eye in master-passion 
Constrains a maniac to the fashion 
Of hideous maniac imitation 

In the least geste — the dropping low 
O* the lid — the wrinkling of the brow, 
Exaggerate with mock and mow, — 

So, mastered was that company 
By the crowned vision utterly. 
Swayed to a maniac mockery. 

One dulled his eyeballs, as they ached 
With Homer's forehe.ad — though he 

lacked 
An inch of any. And one racked 

His lower lip with restless tooth, 
A Pindar's rushing words forsooth 
Were pent behind it. One, his smooth 



Pinft cheeks, did rumple passionate. 
Like .(Eschylus — and tried to prate 
On trolling tongue, of fate and fate : 

One set her eyes like Sappho's — or 
Any light woman's ! one forbore 
Like Dante, or any man as poor 

In mirth, to let a smile undo 

His hard shut lips, And one that drew 

Sour humors from his mother, blew 

His sunken cheeks out to the size 
Of most unnatural jollities. 
Because Anacreon looked jest-wise. 

So with the rest. — It was a sight 

A great world-laughter would requite. 

Or great world-wrath, with equal right. 

Out came a speaker from that crowd. 
To speak for all — in sleek and proud 
Exordial periods, while he bowed 

His knee before the angel — ' Thas 
O angel who hast called for us. 
We bring thee service emulous, — 

' Fit service from sufficient soul — 
Hand-service, to receive world's dole- 
Lip-service, in world's ear to roll 

'Adjusted concords — soft enow 

To hear the wine cups passing, through, 

And not too grave to spoil the show. 

' Thou, certes, when thou a.skest more, 
O sapient angel, leanest o'er 
The window-sill of metaphor. 

' To give our hearts up ! fie ! — That r.i^e 
Barbaric antedates the age : 
It is not done on any stage. 

* Becaase your scald or gleeman went 
With seven or nine-stringed instrument 
Upon his back — must ours be bent ? 

' We are not pilgrims, by your leave. 
No, nor yet martyrs ! if we grieve. 
It is to rhyme to . . . summer eve. 

' And if we labor, it shall be 
As suiteth best with our degree. 
In after-dinner reverie.' 



223 



A VISION OF POETS. 



More yet that speaker would have said, , I only would have ^.f ve ^o bose 
Po.sinl between his smiles fair fed. (In tears and blood, if so He choose) 

Sch separate phrase till finished ; 1 Mine inward music out to u.e. 



Bit all the foreheads of those born 
And dead true poets flushed with scorn 
Uvitwixt the bay leaves round them 



Ay, jetted such brave fire, that they. 
The new come, shrank and paled away. 
Like leaden ashes when the day 

Strikes on the hearth ! A spirit-blast, 
A presence known by power, at last 
Took them up mutely — they had passed 

And he, our pilgrim-poet, saw 
Only their places, in deep awe, — 
What time the angel's smile did draw 

His gazing upward. Smiling on. 
The angel in the angel shone. 
Revealing glory in benison. 

Till, ripened in the light which shut 
The poet in, his spirit mute 
Dropped sudden, as a perfect fruit. 

He fell before the angel's feet. 
Saying—' If what is true is sweet. 
In something 1 may compass it. 

'For where my worthiness is poor. 
My will stands richly at the door. 
To pay shortcomings evermore. 

' Accept me therefore— Not for price. 
And not for pride my sacrifice 
Is tendered ! for my soul is nice 

And will beat down those dusty seeds 
Of bearded corn, if she succeeds 
In soaring while the covey feeds. 

' I soar — I am drawn up like the lark 
To its white cloud : So high my mark. 
Albeit my wing is small and dark. 

' I ask no wages — seek no fame ; 

Sew me, for shroud round face and 

name, 
God's banner of the oriflamme. 



' I only would be spent— in pain 
And loss, perchance— but not in vain. 
Upon the sweetness of that strain. 

' Only project, beyond the bound 
Of mine own life, so lost and found. 
My voice, and live on in its sound. 

' Only embrace and be embraced 
By fiery ends.— whereby to waste 
And light Gud's future with my past. 

The angel's smile grew more divine — 
I'he mortal speaking — ay, its shine 
Swelled fuller, like a choir-note fine. 

Till the broad glory round his brow 
Did vibrate with the light below ; 
But what he said I do not know. 

Nor know I if the man who prayed. 
Rose up accepted, unfor'oade, 
From the church-floor where he was 
laid,— 

Nor if a listening life did run 
Through the king-poets, one by one 
Rejoicing in a worthy son. 

My soul, which might have seen, grew 

blind 
By what it looked on : I can find 
No certain count of things behind. 

I saw alone, dim, white and grand 
As in a dream, the angel's hand 
Stretched forth in gesture of command 

Straight through the haze— And so as 

erst 
A strain more noble than the first 
Mused in the organ and outburst. 

With giant march, from floor to roof 
Rose the full notes ; now parted off 
In pauses massively aloof 

Like measured thunders ; now rejoined 
In concords of mysterious kind 
Which fused together sense and mind ; 



A VISION OF POETS. 



2 39 



Now flashing sharp on sharp along 
Exultant in a mounting throng, — 
No.v dying oflf to a low song 

Foi upon minors, — wavelike sounds 
Re-eddying into silver rounds, 
Enlarging liberty with bounds. 

And every rhythm that seemed to close. 
Survived in confluent underflows, 
Symphonious with the next that rose : 

Thus the whole strain being multiplied 
And greatened, — with its glorified 
Wings shot abroad from side to side, — 

Waved backward (as a wind might 

wave 
A Brocken mist, and with as brave 
Wild roaring) arch and architrave. 

Aisle, transept, column, marble wall, — 
Then swelling outward, prodigal 
Of aspiration beyond thrall. 

Soared, — and drew up with it the whole 

Of this said vision — as a soul 

Is raised by a thought : and as a scroll 

or bright devices is unrolled 

Still upward, with a gradual gold, — 

So rose the vision manifold. 

Angel and organ, and the round 
Of spirits solemnized and crowned, — 
While the freed clouds of incense 
wound 

Ascending, following in their track 
And glimmering faintly, like the rack 
O' the moon in her own light cast back. 

And as that solemn Dream withdrew. 
The lady's kiss did fall anew 
Cold on the poet's brow as dew. 

And that same kiss which bound liim 

first 
Beyond the senses, now reversed 
Its own law, and most subtly pierced 

His spirit with the sense of things 
Sensual and present. Vanishings 
Of glory, with jEolian wings 



Struck him and passed : the lady's face 
Did melt back in the chrysopras 
Of the orient morning sky that was 

Yet clear of lark, — and there and so 
She melted, as a star might do. 
Still smiling as she melted — slow : 

Smiling so slow, he seemed to see 
Her smile the last thing, gloriously. 
Beyond her — far as memory : 

Then he looked round : he was alone — ■ 
He lay before the breaking sun. 
As Jacob at the Bethel stone. 

And thought's entangled skein being 

wound. 
He knew the moorland of his swound. 
And the pale pools that seared the 

ground, — 

The far wood-pines, like ofling ships — 
The fourth pools yew anear him drips — 
World's cruelty attaints his lips ; 

And still he tastes it — bitter still — 
"J'hrough all that glorious possible 
He had the sight of present ill ! 

Yet rising calmly up and slowly. 
With such a cheer as scorneth folly. 
And mild delightsome melancholy. 

He journeyed homeward through the 

wood. 
And prayed along the solitude. 
Betwixt the pines, — ' O God, my God i* 

The golden morning's open flowings 
Did sway the trees to murmurous bow- 
ings. 
In metric chant of blessed poems. 

And passing homeward through the 

wood, 
He- prayed along the solitude, — 
' Thou, Poet-God, art great and good ! 

' And though we must have, and have 

had 
Right reason to be earthly sad, — 
Thou, Poet-God, art great and glad.' 



A VISION OF POETS. 



CONCLUSION. 

Life treads on life, and heart on heart — 
We press loo close in church and mart, 
To keep a dream or grave apart. 

And I was 'ware of walking down 
That same green forest where had gone 
The poet-pilgrim. One by one 

I traced his foststeps : From the east 
A red and tender radiance pressed 
Through the near trees, until I guessed 

The sun behind shone full and round ; 

While up the ieafiness profound 

A wind scarce old enough for sound 

Stood ready to l>!ow on nic when 

I turned that way ; and now and then 

The birds sang and brake otT again 

To shake their pretty feathers dry 
Of the dew sliding droppingly 
From the leaf-edges, and apply 

Back to their song. 'Twixt dew and 

bird 
So sweet a silence ministered. 
God seemed to use it for a word. 

A'et morning souls did leap and run 
In all things, as tlic least had won 
A joyous insight of the sun. 

And no one looking roimd the wood 
Could help confessing as he stooii. 
This Poet-God is glad ami good. 

But hark ! a distant sound that grows! 
A heaving, sinkmg of the boughs — 
A rustling murmur, not of those ! 

A breezy noise, which is not breeze 1 
And white-clad children by degrees 
Steal out in troops among the trees ; 

Fair little children, morning-bright 
With faces grave, yet soft to sight. 
Expressive of restrained deli^jht. 



Some plucked the palm-boughs within 

reach. 
And otiiers leapt up high to catch 
The upper boughs, and shake from each 

A rain of dew, till, wetted so, 

ilie child who held the branch let go. 

And it swang backward with a flow 

Of faster drippings. Then I knew 
The children laughed — but the laugh 

(lew 
From its own chirrup, as might do 

A frightened song-bird ; and a child 
Who seemed the chief, said very mild, 
' Hush ! keep this morning ujidefiled.' 

Ilis eyes rebuked them from calm 

spheres ; 
His soul upon his brow appears 
In waiting for more holy years. 

I called the child to me, ai^.d said, 
'What are your palms for?' — *Tobe 

spread,' 
He answered, ' on a poet dead. 

'The poet died last month ; and now 
Tiie world, which had been somewhat 

slow 
In honoring his living brow, 

' Commands the palms — They must b% 

strown 
On his new marble very soon. 
In a procession of the town.' 

I sighed and said. ' Did he foresee 

Any such honor T ' Verily 

1 cannot tell you,' answered he. 

' But this I know, — I fain would lay 
Mine own head down, another day. 
As /le did, — with the fame away. 

'A lily, a friend's h.ind had plucked. 
Lay by his death-bed, which he looked 
As deep down as a bee had sucked ; 

' Then, turning to the lattice, gazed 
O'er hill and river, and upraised 
His eyes illumined and amax*d 



A VIST ON OF POETS. 



331 



' With the world's hcavity, up to God, 
Rc-oflTering on their iris broad, 
1 he images of things bestowed 

' r.y the chief Poet,— God !' he cried, 
' lie praised for anguish, whicli has tried ; 
For beauty, which has satisfied : — 

'For this world's presence, half within 
And half without me — sound andscenc- 
This sense of Being and of Having been. 

' I thank thee that my soul hath room 
For Thy grand world ! Doth guests may 

come — 
Beauty, to soul — Body, to tomb ! 

' I am content to be so weak. 

Put strength into the words I speak. 

And I am strong in what I seek. 

' I am content to be so bare 

Before the archers ! everywhere 

My wounds being stroked by heavenly 



' I laid my soul before Thy feet. 
That Images of fair and sweet 
Should walk to other men on it. 

* I am content to feel the step 

Of each pure Image ! — let those keep 
To mandragore, who care to sleep. 

'I am content to touch the brink 
Of the other goblet, and I think 
My bitter drink a wholesome drink. 

* Because my portion was assigned 
Wholesome and bitter — Thou art kind 
And I am blessed to my mind. 

' Gifted for giving, I receive 

The maythorn, and its scent ontgive ! 

I grieve not that I once did grieve. 

' In my large joy of sight and touch 
Beyond what others count for such, 
I am content to suffer much. 



' I knmv — is all the mourner sailh, 
/ Knowledge by suffering cntereth \ 
yAnd life is perfected by Death 1' ' ) 



The child spake nobly. Strange to hear 
His infantine soft accents clear. 
Charged with high meanings, did ap- 
pear, 

And fair to .sec, his form and face. 
Winged out with whiteness and pure 

grace 
From the green darkness of the place. 

Behind his head a palm-tree grew ; 
An orient beam which pierced it through 
Transversely on his forehead drew 

ITie figure of a palm- branch brown 
Traced on its brightness up and down 
In fine fair lines, — a shadow-crown. 

Guido might paint his angeLs so — 
A little angel, taught to go 
With holy words to saints below. 

Such innocence of action yet 

Significance of object met 

In his whole bearing strong and sweet. 

And all the children, the whole band. 
Did round in rosy reverence stand. 
Each with a palm-bough in his hand. 

' And so he died,' I whispered ; — ' Nay, 
IV ot so' the childish voice did say — 
' That poet turned him, first, to pray 

'In silence ; and God heard the rest, 
'Twixt the sun's footsteps down th<» 

west. 
Then he called one who loved him best. 



' Yea, he called .softly through the room 
(His voice was weak yet tender; — 

'Come,' 
He said, ' come nearer ! Let the bloom 

' Of Life grow over, undenicd, 

This bridge of Death, which is not 

wide — 
I .shall be soon at the other side. 

' Come, kiss rne !' So the one in truth 
Who loved him best — in love, not ruth. 
Bowed down and kissed him mouth ta 
mouth. 



CROWNED AND WEDDED. 



• And, in that kiss of Love, was won 
Life's manumission : All was done — 
The mouth that kissed last, kissed alone. 

' But in the former, confluent kiss. 
The same was sealed, I think, by His, 
To words of truth and uprightness.' 

The child's voice trembled — his lips 

shook 
Like a rose leaning over a brook. 
Which vibrates though it is not struck. 

•And who,' I asked, a little moved 
Yet curious-eyed, ' was this that loved 
And kissed him last, as it behooved t ' 

*/,' softly said the child ; and then, 
•/,' said he louder, once again. 

• Hi's son, — my rank is among men. 

• And now that men exalt his name 
I come to gather palms with them. 
That holy Love may hallow Fame. 

• He did not die alone ; nor should 
His memory live so, ' mid these rude 
World praisers — a worse solitude. 

' Me, a voice calleth to that tomb 
Where these are strewing branch and 

bloom. 
Saying, come nearer ! — and I come. 

' Glory to God ! ' resumed he. 

And his eyes smiled for victory 

O'er their own tears which I could see 

Fallen on the palm, down cheek and 

chin 
' That poet now hath entered in 
The place of rest which is not sin. 

' And while he rests, his songs in troops 
Walk up and down our earthly slopes. 
Companioned by diviner Hopes.' 

' But thou' I murmured, — to engage 
The child's speech farther — ' hast an age 
Too tender for this orphanage.* 

' Glory tO God — to God ! ' he saith — 
[ Knowledge by suffering enduketh | 
And ufe is pep.fected by Death 1 ' I 



CROWNED AND WEDDEB. 

When last before her people's face her 

own fair face she bent. 
Within the meek projection of that shade 

she was content 
To erase the child-smile from her lips, 

which seemed as if it might 
Be still kept holy from the world to 

childhood still in sight — 
To erase it with a solemn vow— a prince 

ly vow — to rule — 
A priestly vow — to rule by grace of God 

the pitiful, 
A very god- like vow — to rule in risht 

and righteoasness. 
And with the law and for the land ! — so 

God the vower bless ! 
The minster was alight that day, but 

not with fire, I ween. 
And long-drawn glitterings swept adown 

that mighty aisled scene : 
The priests stood stoled in their pomp, 

the sworded chiefs in theirs. 
And so, the collared knights, — and so, 

the civil ministers. 
And so, the waiting lords and dames — 

and little pages best 
At holding trains— and legates so, from 

countries east and west — 
So, alien princes, native peers, and high- 
born ladies bright. 
Along whose brows the queen's new 

crowned, flashed coronets to light ! 
And so, the people at the gates, with 

priestly hands on high. 
Which bnng the first anointing to all 

legal majesty. 
And so the Dead — who lie in rows be- 
neath the minster floor. 
There, verily an awful state maintain- 
ing evermore — 
The statesman whose clean palm will 

kiss no bribe whate'er it be — 
The courtier, who, for no fair queen 

will rise up to his knee — 
The court-dame who, for no court-tire, 

will leave her shroud behind — 
The laureate who no courtlier rhyme 

than ' dust to dust ' can find — 
The kings and queens who having made 

that vow and worn that crown. 
Descended unto lower thrones ?Jid dark- 
er, deep adown ! 



CROIVJVED AND BURIED. 



233 



Dicu rt iuott droit — wliat is't to them ? 

what meaning can it have ? — 
I'hs King of kings, the right of death — 

God's judgment and the grave ! 
And when betwixt the quick and dead 

the yoimg fair queen had vowed, 
Tne livmg shouted 'May she hve ! 

Victoria, live !' aloud — 
And as the loyal shouts went up, true 

spirits prayed between, 
' The blessings happy monarchs have 

be thine, O crowned queen !' 
But now before her people's face she 

bendeth hers anew, 
And calls them, while she vows, to be 

her witness thereunto. 
She vowed to rule, and in that oath, her 

childhood put away — 
She doth maintain her womanhood, in 

vowing love to-day. 
O, lovely lady ! — let her vow ! — such lips 

become such vows. 
And fairer goeth bridal wreath than 

crown with vernal brows! 
O, lovely lady ! — let her vow ! — yea, let 

her vow to love ! — 
And though she be no less a queen — 

with purples hung above. 
The pageant of a court behind, the 

royal kin around. 
And woven gold to catch her looks 

turned maidenly to ground. 
Vet may the bride- veil hide from her a 

little of that state. 
While loving hopes, for retinues, about 

her sweetness wait : 
She vows to love who vowed to rule — 

the chosen at her side 
Let none say, God preserve the queen ! 

— but rather. Bless the bride ! 
None blow the trump, none bend the 

knee, none violate the dream 
Wherein no monarch but a wife, she to 

herself may seem : 
Or, if ye say, Preserve the queen ! — oh, 

breathe it inward low — 
She is a 7voninn and beloved .' — and 'tis 

enough but so ! 
Count it enough, thou noble prince, who 

tak'st her by the hand. 
And claimest for thy lady-love, our lady 

of the land ! 
And since. Prince Albert, men have 

called thy spirit high and rare, 



And true to truth and brave for truth, 

as some at Augsburg were, — 
We charge thee, by thy lofty thoughts, 

and by thy poet-mind. 
Which not by glory and degree takes 

measure of mankind. 
Esteem that wedded hand less dear for 

sceptre than for ring. 
And hold her uncrowned womanhood 

to be the royal thing : 
And now, upon our queen's last vow, 

what blessings shall we pray ? 
None straitened to a shallow crown, 

will suit our lips to-day. 
Behold, they must be free as love— they 

must be broad as free, 
Even to the borders of heaven's light 

and earth's humanity. 
Long live she ! — send up loyal shouts — 

and true hearts pray between, — 
'The blessings happy peasants hive, 

be thine, O crowned queen 1' 



CROWNED AND BURIED. 

Napoleon [—-years ago, and that great 

word 
Compact of human breath in hate ai>*l 

dread 
And exaltation, skied us overhead — 
An atmosphere whose lightning was th«« 

sword 
Scathing the cedars of the world,- 

drawn down 
In burnings, by the metal of a crown. 

Napoleon ! Nations, while they cursed 

that name. 
Shook at their own curse ; and whilff 

others bore 
Its sound, as of a trumpet, on before, 
Brass-fronted legions justified its fame— 
And dying men, on trampled batth,.- 

sods, 
N^ar their last silence, uttered if; foi 

God's. 

Napoleon! Sages, with high f y»heads 

drooped. 
Did use it for a problem ; chiW m small 
Leapt up to greet it, as at >r,anhood's 

call : 



=34 



CROWNED AND BURIED. 



Priests blessed it from their altars over- 
stooped 

By meek-eyed Christs, — and widows 
with a moan 

Spake it, when questioned why they sat 
alone. 

That name consumed the silence of the 
snows 

In Alpme keeping, holy and cloud-hid : 

The mimic eagles dared what Nature's 
did. 

And over-rushed her moimtainous re- 
pose 

In search of eyries : and the Egyptian 
river 

Mingled the same word with its grand 
'for ever,' 

That name was shouted near the pyra- 
midal 

Nilotic tombs, whose mummied habi- 
tants. 

Packed to humanity's significance. 

Motioned it back with stillness : Shouts 
as idle 

As hireling artists' work of myrrh and 
spice 

Which swathed last glories round the 
Ptolemies. 

The world's face changed to hear it. 
Kingly men 

Came down in chidden babts' bewilder- 
ment 

From autocratic places — each content 

With sprinkled ashes for anointing : — 
then 

The people laughed or wondered for the 
nonce, 

To see one throne a composite of 
thrones. 

Napoleon ! Even the torrid vastitude 
Of India felt in throbbings of the air 
That name which scattered by disastrous 

blare 
AH Europe's bound-lines, — drawn afresh 

in blood ! 
Napoleon — from the Russias, west to 

Spain ! 
And Austria trembled — till we heard her 

chain. 



And Germany was 'ware and Italy 

Obhvious of old fames — her laurel- 
locked. 

High-ghosted Caesars passing unin- 
voked,— 

Did crumble her own ruins with her 
knee, 

To serve a newer : — Ay I but French- 
men cast 

A future from them nobler than her 
past. 

For, verilj', though France augiistly 

rose 
With that raised name, and did assume 

by such 
The purple of the world, — none gave so 

much 
As she in purchase — to speak plain, in 

Whose hands, to freedom stretched, 

dropped paralyzed 
To wield a sword or fit an undersized 

King's crown to a great man's head. 
And though along 

Her Parls's streets, did float on fre- 
quent streams 

Of triumph, pictured or emmarbled 
dreams, 

Dreampt right by genius in a world gone 
wrong, — 

No dream, of all so won, was fair to see 

As the lost vision of her liberty. 

Napoleon I 'twas a high name lifted 
high! 

It met at last God's thunder sent to 
clear 

Our compassing and covering atmos- 
phere. 

And open a clear sight beyond the sky 

Of supreme empire : this of earth's was 
done — 

And kings crept out again to feel the 
sun. 

The kings crept out — the peoples sat at 

home. 
And finding the long-invocated peace 
A pall embroidered with worn images 
Of rights divine, too scant to cover doom 
Such as they suffered, — cursed the corn 

that grew 
Rankly, to bitter bread, on Waterloo. 



CROWNED AND BURIED. 



S35 



A deep gloom centered in the deep re- 
pose — 
The nations stood up mute to count their 

dead — 
And lie who owned the Name which 

vibrated 
Through silence, — Trusting to his no- 
blest foes 
When earth was all too grar for chiv- 
alry- 
Died of their mercies, 'mid the desert 
sea. 



O wild St. Helen! very still she kept 

him, 
With a green willow for all pj^ramid,-^ 
Which stirred a little if the low wind 

did, 
A little more, if pilgrims overwept him 
Disparting the lithe boughs to see the 

clay 
Which seemed to cover his for judg- 
ment-day. 



Nay ! not so long 1 — France kept her old 

affection 
As deeply as the sepulchre the corse. 
Until dilated by such love's remorse 
To a new angel of the resurrection, 
She cried, ' Behold, thou England ! I 

would have 
The dead whereof thou wottest from 

that grave.' 

And England answered in the courtesy 
Which ancient foes, turned lovers, may 

befit, — 
• Take back thy dead ! and when thou 

buriest it. 
Throw m all former strife 'twixt thee 

and me.' 
Amen, mine England ! 'tis a courteous 

claim — 
But ask a little room too . . . for thy 

shame ! 

Because it was not well, it was not well. 
Nor tuneful with thy lofty-chanted part 
Among the Oceanides, — that heart 
To bind and bare and vex with vulture 
fell. 



I would, my noble England, men might 

seek 
All crimson stains upon thy breast — not 

cheek ! 

I would that hostile fleets had scarrei\ 

Torbay, 
Instead of the lone ship which waited 

moored 
Until thy princely purpose was assured. 
Then left a shadrnv — not to pa.ss away — 
Not for to-night's moon, nor to-morrow's 

sun 1 
Green watching hills, ye witnessed what 

was done I 

And since it was done, — In the sepul 

chral dust 
We fain would pay back something of 

our debt 
To France, if not to honor, and forget 
How through much fear we falsified 

the trust 
Of a fallen foe and exile -.—We return 
Orestes to Electra ... in his urn. 

A little urn — a little dust inside. 
Which once outbalanced the large earth, 

albeit 
To-day a four-years child might carry it 
Sleek-browed and smilmg, ' Let the bur- 
den 'bide !' 
Orestes to Electra !— O fair town 
Of Paris, how the wild tears will run 

down 
And run back in the chariot-marks of 

Time, 
When all the people shall come forth to 

meet 
The passive victor, death-still in the 

street 
He rode through 'mid the shouting and 

bell-chime 
And martial music,— under eagles which 
Dyed their rapacious beaks at Auster- 

litz. 

Napoleon ! he hath come again — borne 
home 

Upon the popular ebbing heart, — a sea 

Which gathers its own wrecks per- 
petually, 

Majestically moaning. Give him room 1 



230 



A FLOl^ER IN A LETTER. 



Room for the dead in Paris ! welcome 
solemn 

And grave deep, 'neath the cannon- 
moulded column !* 

There, weapon spent and warrior spent 

m.iy rest 
From roar of fields : provided Jupiter 
Dare trust Saturnus to lie down so near 
His bolts ! — And this he may. For, dis- 
possessed 
Of any god ship lies the godlike arm — 
The goat, Jove sucked, as likely to do 
harm. 

And yet . . . Napoleon ! — the recov- 
ered name 

Shakes the old casements of the world ! 
and we 

Look out upon the passing pageantry, 

Attesting that the Dead makes gooci his 
claim 

To a French grave, — another kingdom 
won, 

The last — of few spans — by Napoleon. 

Blood fell like dew beneath his sunrise 

— sooth ! 
B itglittered dew-like in the covenanted 
Meridian light. He was a despot — 

granted 1 
Bat the atitos of his autocratic mouth 
Said yea i' the people's French : he 

magnified 
The image of the freedom he denied. 

And if they asked for rights, he made 
reply. 

* Ye have my glory !' — and so, drawing 
round them 

His ample purple, glorified and bound 
them 

In an embrace that seemed identity. 

He ruled them like a tyrant — true ! but 
none 

Were ruled like slaves! Each felt Na- 
poleon ! 

I do not praise this man : the man was 

flawed 
For Adam — much more, Christ ! — liis 

knee unbent — 

• It was tlu- liiKt iiitviitioii to hury liiiii uu- 
dei- thu ooluuiu. 



His hand unclean — his aspiration pent 
Within a sword-sweep — pshaw ! — but 

since he had 
The genius to be loved, why let him 

have 
The justice to be honored in his grave. 

I think this nation's tears poured thus 

together. 
Better than shouts : I think this funeral 
Grander than crownings, though a Pope 

bless all : 
I think this grave stronger than thrones: 

But whether 
The crowned Napoleon or the buried 

clay 
Be worthier, I discern not — Angels may. 



A FLOWER IN A LETTER. 

Mv lonely chamber next the sea. 
Is full of many flowers set free 

By summer's earliest duty ; 
Dear friends upon the garden-walk 
Might stop amid their fondest talk. 

To pull the least in beauty. 

A thousand flowers — each seeming one 
That learnt, by gazing on the sun. 

To counterfeit his shining — 
Within whose leaves the holy dew 
That falls from heaven, hath won anew 

A glory ... in declining. 

Red roses used to praises long. 
Contented with the poet's song. 

The nightingale's being over : 
And lilies white, prepared to touch 
The whitest thought, nor soil it much. 

Of dreamer turned to lover. 

Deep violets you liken to 

The kindest eyes that look on you. 

Without a thought disloyaJLL, 
And cactuses, a queen might don. 
If weary of a golden crown. 

And still appear as roy.al. 

Pansies for ladies all, — I wis 

That none who wear such brooches, miss 

A jewel in the mirror : 
And tulips, children love to stretch 
Their fingers down, to feel in each 

Its beauty's secret nearer. 



A FLOIVER IN A LETTER. 



Love's language may be talked with 

these 
To work out choicest sentences. 

No blossoms can be meeter, 
And such being used in Eastern bowers, 
Young maids may wonder if the flowers 

Or meanings be the sweeter. 

And such being strewn before a bride. 
Her little foot may turn aside. 

Their longer bloom decreeing ; 
Unless some voice's whispered sound 
Should make her gaze upon the ground 

Too earnestly for seeing. 

And such being scattered on a grave, 
Whoever mourneth there may have 

A type which seemeth worthy 
Of that fair body hid below 
Which bloomed on earth a time ago, 

Then perished as the earthy. 

And such being wreathed for worldly 

feast. 
Across the brimming cup some guest 

Their rainbow colors viewing. 
May feel them, — with a silent start. 
The covenant, his childish heart 

With nature made, — renewing 

No flowers our gardened England hath, 
To m\tch with these in bloom and breath 

Which from the world are hiding 
In sunny Devon moist with rills, 
A nunnery of cloistered hills, 

The elements presiding. 

By Loddon's stream the flowers are fair 
That meet one gifted lady's care 

With prodigal rewarding ; 
For Beauty is too used to run 
To Mitford's bower — to want the sun 

To light her through the garden. 

But, here, all summers are comprised — 
The nightly frosts shrink exorcised 

Before the priestly moonshtne : 
And every Wind with stoled feet, 
In wandering down the alleys sweet. 

Steps lightly on the sunshine : 

And (having promised Harpocrate 
Among the nodding roses, that 

No harm shall touch his daughters) 



Gives quite away the rushing sound. 
He dares not use upon such ground. 
To ever-trickling waters. 

Yet, sun and wind ! what can ye do, 
But make the leaves more brightly show 

In posies newly gathered ? 
I look away from all your best ; 
To one poor flower unlike the rest, 

A little flower half-withered. 

I do not think it ever was 

A pretty flower, — to make the grass 

Look greener where it reddened : 
And now it seems ashamed to be 
Alone in all this company. 

Of aspect shrunk and saddened. 

A ch.amber-Nvindow was the spot 
It grew in, from a garden-pot. 

Among the city shadows : 
If any, tending it, might seem 
To smile, 'twas only m a dream 

Of nature in the meadows. 

How coldly on its head did fall 
The sunshine, from the city wall 

In pale refraction driven I 
How sadly pJashed upon its leaves 
The raindrops, losing in the eaves 

The first sweet news of Heaven ! 

And those who planted, gathered it 
In gamesome or in loving fit. 

And sent it as a token 
Of what their city pleasures be, — 
For one, in Devon by the sea 

And garden-blooms, to look on. 

But SHE, for whom the jest was meant. 
With a grave passion innocent 

Receiving what was given, — 
Oh ! if her face she turned then. 
Let none say 'twas to gaze again 

Upon the flowers of Devon 1 

Because, whatever virtue dwells 
In genial skies — warm oracles 

For gardens brightly springing, — 
The flower which grew beneath your 
eyes. 

Beloved friends, to mine supplies 

A beauty worthier singing 1 



-3S 



TO BETTINE. 



TO BETTINE, 

THE CHILD FRIEND OF GOETHE. 

" I have the second eight, Goethe !" — IMters 
tf a Child. 

I. 

Bettine, friend of Goethe, 
Hadst thou the second sight — 
Upturning worship and dehght 

With such a loving duty 
To his grand face, as women will, 
The childhood 'neath thine eyelids still ? 



Before his shrine to doom thee 
Using the same child's smile 
That heaven and earth, beheld erewhile 

For the first time, won from thee. 
Ere star and flower grew dim and dead. 
Save at his feet and o'er his head. 



Digging thine heart and throwing 
Away its childhood's gold. 
That so its woman- depth might hold 

His spirit's overflowing. 
For surging souls, no worlds can bound, 
Their channel in the heart have found. 



O child, to change appointed. 
Thou hadst not second sight ! 
What eyes the future view aright. 

Unless by tears anointed ? 
Yea, only tears themselves can show 
The burning ones that have to flow. 



O woman, deeply loving. 
Thou hadst not second sight ! 
The star is very high and bright. 

And none can see it moving. 
Love looks around, below, above, 
Yet all his prophecy is — love. 



The bird thy childhood's playing 
Sent onward o'er the sea, 
Thy dove of hope came back to thee 



Without a leaf. Art laying 
Its wet cold wing no sim can dry. 
Still in thy bosom secretly ? 



Our Goethe's friend, Bettine, 
I have the second sight ! 
The stone upon his grave is white. 

The funeral stone between ye ; 
And in thy mirror thou hast viewed 
Some change as hardly understood. 



Where's childhood ? where is Goethe ? 
The tears are in thine eyes. 
Nay, thou shalt yet reorganise 

Thy maidenhood of beauty 
In his own glory, which is smooth 
Of wrinkles and sublime in youth. 



The poet's arms have wound thee. 
He breathes upon thy brow, 
He lifts thee upward in the glow 

Of his great genius round thee, — 
The childlike poet undefiled 
Preserving evermore The Child. 



FELICIA HEMANS. 



TO L. K. L., REFERRING TO HER MONODY 
ON THAT POETESS. 



Thou bay-crowned living One that o'er 

the bay-crowned Dead art bowing. 
And o'er the shadeless moveless brow 

the vital shadow throwing ; 
And o'er the sighless songless lips the 

wail and music wedding ; 
And dropping o'er the tranquil eyes, the 

tears not of their shedding ! — ■ 



Take music from the silent Dead, whose 

meaning is completer ; 
Reserve thy tears for living brows, 

where all such tears are meeter ; 
And leave the violets in the grass to 

brighten where thou treadest ! 
No flowers for her ! no need of flowers — 

albeit " bring flowers," thou saides*- 



MV HEART AND I. 



Yes, flowers, to crown the "cup ?.nd 

lute !" since both may come to 

breaking : 
Or flowers, to greet the ' bride !' the 

heart's own beating works its aching : 
Or flowers, to soothe the 'captive's' sight, 

from earth's free bosom gathered, 
Reminding of his earthly hope, then 

withering as it withered ! 



But bring not near the solemn corse, a 

type of human seeming ! 
Lay only dust's stern verity upon the 

dust undreaming. 
And while the calm perpetual stars shall 

look upon it solely, 
Her sphered soul shall look on them, 

with eyes more bright and holy. 



Nor mourn, O living One, because her 

part in life was mourning. 
Would she have lost the poet's fire for 

anguish of the burning ? — 
The minstrel harp, for the strained 

string ? the tripod, for the afiiated 
Woe? or the vision, for those tears in 

which it shone dilated ? 



Perhaps she shuddered while the world's 

cold hand her brow was wreathing, 
But never wronged that mystic breath 

which breathed in all her breathing; 
Which drew from rocky earth and man, 

abstractions high and moving — 
Beauty, if not the beautiful, and love, 

if not the loving. 



Such visionings have paled in sight ; the 
Saviour she descrieth, 

And little recks ivJio wreathed the brow 
which on His bosom lieth. 

The whiteness of His innocence o'er all 
her garments flowing, 

There, learneth she the sweet 'new 
song,' she will not mourn in know- 
ing. 



Be happy, crowned and living One ! 

and, as thy dust decayeth, 
May thine own England say f&r thee, 

what now for her it sayeth — 
* Albeit softly in our ears her silver song 

was ringing, 
The foot-fall of her parting wul is softer 

than her singing !' 



MY HEART AND I. 



Enough ! we're tired, my heart and I. 
We sit beside the he«c[stone thus. 
And wish that name were carved foi 
us. 
The moss reprints more tenderly 

The hard types of the mason's knife. 
As heaven's sweet life renews earth's 
life 
With which we're tired, my heart and I. 



You see we're tired, my heart and I. 
We dealt with books, we trusted men. 
And in our own blood drenched the 
pen. 
As if such colors could not fly. 

We walked too straight for fortun?'.*; 

end. 
We loved too true to keep a friend ; 
At last we're tired, my heart and I. 



How tired we feel, my heart and I ! 

We seem of no use in the world ; 

Our fancies hang gray and uncur ed 
About men's eyes indifferently ; 

Our voice which thrilled you so, will 
let 

You sleep : our tears are only wet : 
What do we here, my heart and I. 



So tired, so tired, my heart and 1 1 
It was not thus in that old time 
When Ralph sat with me neath the 
lime 



IVISDOM UNAPPLIED. 



To watch the sunset from the sky. 

' Dear love, you're looking tired,' he 
said ; 

I, smiling at mm, shook my head : 
'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I. 



So tired, so tired, my heart and 1 1 
Though now none takes mc on li 

arm 
To fold me close and ki"« me warm 

Till each quick breath end in a sigli 
Of happy languor. Now, alone, 
We lean upon this graveyard stone, 

Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and 1. 



Tired out we are, my heart and I. 
Suppose the world brought diadems 
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems 

Of powers and plea.sures? Let it try. 
We scarcely care to look at even 
A pretty child, or God's blue heaven. 

We feel so tired, my heart and I. 



Yet who complains ? IMy heart and I ? 
In this abundant earth no doubt 
Is little room for things worn out : 
Disdain them, break them, throw them 
byl 
And if before the days grew rough 
We once were loved, used, — well 
enough, 
I think, we've fared, my neart and I. 



WISDOM UNAPPLIED. 



If I were thou, O butterfly. 

And poised my purple wings to spy 

The sweetest flowers that live and die. 



1 would not waste my strength on those. 
As thou, — for summer hatli a close. 
And pansies bloom not in the snows. 



in. 
If I were thou, O working bee. 
And all that honey-gold -I see 
Could delve from roses easily ; 

IV. 

I would not hive it at man's door. 
As thou, — that heirdom of my store 
Should make him rich, and leave me 
poor. 



If I were thou, O Eagle proud. 

And screamed the thunder back aloud. 

And faced the lightning from the cloud; 



I would not build my eyrie-throne. 
As thou, — upon a crumbling stone. 
Which the next storm may trample 
down. 



If I were thou, O gallant steed, 
With pawing hoof, and dancing head. 
And eye outrunning thine own speed ; 



I would not meeken to the rein. 

As thou, — nor smooth my nostril plain 

From the glad desert's snort and strain. 



If I were thou, red-breasted bird. 
With song at shut up window heard. 
Like Love's sweet Yes too long de- 
ferred ; 



I would not overstay delight. 

As thou, — but take a swallow-flight. 

Till the new spring returned to sight. 



While yet I spake, a touch was laid 
Upon my brow, whose pride did fade 
As thus, methought, an angel said : 



" If I were thou who sing'st this song. 
Most wise for others ; and most strong 
In seeing right while doing wrong ; 



THE CRY OF THE HUMAN. 



»4« 



XIII. 
•I would not waste my cares and 

choose. 
As thou, — to seek what thou must lose. 
Such gains as perish in the use. 



' I would not work where none can win. 
As thou, — half way 'twixt grief and sin, 
But look above and judge within. 



' I would not let my pulse beat high. 
As thou. — towards fame's regality. 
Nor yet in love's great jeopardy. 



' I would not champ the hard cold bit, 
As thou, — of what the world thnks fit. 
But takes God's freedom using it. 



' I would not play earth's winter out. 
As thou ; but gird my soul about, 
And live for life past death and doubt. 



' Then sing, O singer ! — but allow 
Beast, fly and bird, called foolish now. 
Are wise (for all thy scorn) as thou ! ' 



THE CRY OF THE HUMAN. 

* There is no God,' the foolish saith. 

But none, ' There is no sorrow ;' 
And nature oft, the cry of faith. 

In bitter need will borrow : 
Eyes which the preacher could not 
school. 

By wayside graves are raised ; 
And lips say, ' God be pitiful,' 

Who ne'er said, ' God be praised.' 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

The tempest stretches from the steep 

The shadow of its coming ; 
The beasts grow tame, and near us 

creep. 
As help were in the human : 
Yet while the cloud-wheels roll and 

grind 



We spirits tremble under I — 
The hills have echoes ; but we find 
No answer for the thunder. 

Be pitiful, O God 1 

The battle hurtles on the plains — 

Earth feels new scythes upon her : 
We reap our brothers for the wains. 

And call the harvest . . honor, — 
Draw face to face, front line to line. 

One image all inherit, — 
Then kill, curse on, by that same sign. 

Clay, clay, — and spirit, spirit. 

Be pitiful, O God! 

The plague runs festering through the 
town. 

And never a bell is tolling : 
And corpses jostled 'neath the moon. 

Nod to the dead-cart's rolling. 
The young child calleth for the cup — 

The strong man brings it weeping ; 
The mother from her babe looks up. 

And shrieks away its sleeping. 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

The plague of gold strides far and near. 

And deep and strong it enters : 
This purple chimar which we wear. 

Makes madder than the centaur's. 
Our thoughts grow blank, our words 
grow strange ; 

We cheer the pale gold-diggers — 
Each soul is worth so much on 'Change, 

And marked, like sheep, with figures. 
Be pitiful, O God I 

The curse of gold upon the land. 

The lack of bread enforces — 
The rail -cars snort from strand to strand. 

Like more of Death's White Horses \ 
The rich preach ' rights ' and future 
days. 

And hear no angel scoffing : 
The poor die mute — with starvir.g gaze 

On corn-ships irj the offing. 

Be pitiful, O God I 

We meet together at the feast — 
To private mirth betake us — 

We stare down in the winecup lest 
Some vacant chair should sfipke us ? 

We name delight, and pledge it round- - 
• It shall be ours to-morrow 1 ' 



142 



A LAV OF THE EARLY ROSE. 



God's seraphs do your voices sound 
As sad in naming sorrow ? 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

"We sit together, with the skies. 

The steadfast skies, above us : 
We look into each other's eyes, 

'And how long will you love us?' 
The eyes grow dim with prophecy. 

The voices low and breathless — 
' Till death us part ! ' — O words, to be 

Onv Ijcsi for love the deathless ! 

Be pitiful, dear God I 

We tremble by the harmless bed 

Of one loved and departed — 
Our tears drop on the lids that said 

Last night, ' Be stronger hearted ! ' 
O God, — to clasp those fingers close. 

And yet to feel so lonely ! — 
To see a light upon such brows. 

Which is the daylight only ! 

Be pitiful, O God I 

The happy children come to us. 

And look up in our faces : 
They ask us — Was it thus, and thus. 

When we were in their places ? 
We cannot speak : — we see anew 

The hills we used to live in ; 
And feel our mother's smile press 
through 

The kisses she is giving. 

Be pitiful, O God 1 

We pray together at the kirk. 
For mercy, mercy, solely — 

Hands weary with the evil work. 
We lift them to the Holy ! 

The corpse is calm below our knee- 
Its spirit bright before Thee — 

Between them, worse than either, we — 
Without the rest of glory ! 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

We leave the communing of men, 

The murmur of the passions ; 
And live alone, to live again 

With endless generations. 
Are we so brave ?— The sea and sky 

In silence lift their mirrors ; 
And, glassed therein, our spirits high 

Recoil from their own terrors. 

Be pitiful, O God ! 



We sit on hills our childhood wist, 

Woods, hamlets, streams, beholding : 
The sun strikes through the farthest 
mist. 
The city's spire to golden. 
The city's golden spire it was. 

When hope and health were stron- 
gest. 
But now it is the churchyard grass. 
We look upon the longest. 

Be pitiful, O God J 

And soon all vision wa.xeth dull- 
Men whisper, ' He is dying : ' 

We cry no more, ' Be pitiful ! ' — 
We have no strength for crying : 

No strength no need I Then, Soul of 
mine, 
Look up and triumph rather — 

Lo ! in the depth of God's Divine, 
The Son adjures the Father — 

Be pitiful, O God I 



A LAY OF THE EARLY ROSE. 

Discordance that can accord. 

KOMAUNT OF TUK ROBB 

A ROSE once grew within 

A garden April-green, 
In her loneness, in her loneness. 
And the fairer for that oneness. 

A white rose delicate. 
On a tall bough and straight I 
Early comer, early comer. 
Never waiting for the summer. 

Her pretty guests did win 

South winds to let her in. 
In her loneness, in her loneness, 
All the fairer for that oneness. 

' For if I wait,' said she, 

' Till time for roses be, — 
For the moss-rose and the musk-rose. 
Maiden-blush and royal-dusk rose, — 

' What glory then for me 

In such company ? — 
Roses plenty, roses plenty. 
And one nightingale for twenty ? 



A LAV OF THE EARLY ROSE. 



' Nay, let me in,' said she, 

' Before the rest are free, — 
In my loneness, in my loneness. 
All the fairer for that oneness. 

' For I would lonely stand. 

Uplifting my white hand. 
On a mission, on a mission. 
To declare the coming vision. 

'Upon which lifted sign. 
What worship will be mine ? 

What addressing, what caressing ! 

And what thank and praise and bless- 
ing ! 

'A windlike joy will rush 
Through every tree and bush. 

Bending softly in affection 

And spontaneous benediction. 

' Insects, that only may 

Live in a sunbright ray. 
To my whiteness, to my whiteness. 
Shall be drawn, as to a brightness, — 

' And every moth and bee. 

Approach me reverently ; 
Wheeling o'er me, wheeling o'er me. 
Coronals of motioned glory. 

'Three larks shall leave a cloud ; 

To my whiter beauty vowed — 
Singing gladly all the moontide. 
Never waiting for the suntide. 

' Ten nightingales shall flee 
Their woods for love of me. 
Singing sadly all the suntide. 
Never waiting for the moontide. 

' I ween the very skies 
Will look down with surprise. 
When low on earth they see me. 
With my starry aspect dreamy ! 

' And earth will call her flowers 

To hasten oat of doors. 
By their curtsies and sweet-smelling. 
To give grace to my foretelling.' 

So praying, did she win 

South winds to let her in. 
In her loneness, in her loneness. 
And the fairer for that oneness. 



But ah ! — alas for her ! 

No thing did minister 
To her praises, to her praises. 
More than might unto a daisy's. 

No tree nor bush was seen 

To boast a perfect green ; 
Scarcely having, scarcely having 
One leaf broad enough for waving. 

The litde flies did crawl 

Along the southern wall. 
Faintly shifting, faintly shifting 
Wmgs scarce strong enough for lifting 

The lark, too high or low, 

I ween, did miss her so ; 
With his nest down in the gorses. 
And his song in the star-courses. 

The nightingale did please 

To loiter beyond seas. 
Guess him in the happy islands. 
Learning music from the silence. 

Only the bee, forsooth. 
Came in the place of both ; 
Doing honor, doing honor. 
To the honey-dews upon her. 

The skies looked coldly down. 

As on a royal crown ; 
Then with drop for drop, at leisure. 
They began to rain for pleasure. 

Whereat the earth did seem 

To waken from a dream. 
Winter-frozen, winter-frozen. 
Her unquiet eyes unclosing — 

Said to the Rose — ' Ha, snow ! 

And art thou fallen so ? 
Thou, who wast enthroned stately 
All along my mountains lately ? 

' Holla, thou world-wide snow ! 

And art thou wasted so ? 
With a little bough to catch thee. 
And a little bee to watch thee ! ' 

— Poor Rose to be misknown ! 

Would, she had ne'er been blown. 
In her loneness, in her loneness. 
All the sadder for that oneness ! 



244 



A LAV OF THE EARLY ROSE. 



Some word she tried to say — 
Some no . . . ah, wellaway ! 
Bat the passion did o'ercome her. 
And the fair frail leaves dropped from 
her — 

Dropped from her, fair and mute, 

Close to a poet's foot. 
Who beheld them, smiling slowly, 
As at something sad yet holy : 

Said, ' Verily and thus 

It chanceth too with us 
Poets singin? sweetest snatches, 
While that deaf men keep the watches — 

' Vaunting to come before 

Our own age evermore. 
In a loneness, in a loneness. 
And the nobler for that oneness ! 

' Holy in voice and heart. 

To high ends, set apart ! 
All unmated, all unmated. 
Just because so consecrated. 

' But if alone we be. 

Where is our empery ? 
And if none can reach our stature. 
Who can mete our lofty nature ? 

' What bell will yield a tone. 

Swung in the air alone ? 
If no brazen clapper bringing. 
Who can hear the chimed ringing ? 

'What angel, but would seem 
To sensual eyes, ghost-dim ? 

And without assimilation, 

Vain is inter-penetration. 

' And thus, what can we do. 

Poor rose and poet too. 
Who both antedate our mission 
In an unprepared season ? 

' Drop leaf — be silent song — 
Cold things we come among. 

Wc must warm them, we must warm 
them, 

Ere we ever hope to charm them. 

' Howbeit' (here his face 
Lightened round the place, — 



So to mark the outward turning 
Of his spirit's inward burning.) 

' Something it is, to hold 

In God's worlds manifold. 
First revealed to creature-duty, 
Some new form of His mild Beauty ! 

' Whether that form respect 

The sense or intellect. 
Holy be in mood or meadow. 
The Chief Beauty's sign and shadow ! 

' Holy, in me and thee. 
Rose fallen from the tree, — 

Though the world stand dumb around 
us. 

All unable to expound us. 

'Though none us deign to bless, 

Blessed are we, nathless : 
Blessed still and consecrated. 
In that, rose, we were created. 

' Oh. shame to poet's lays 
Sung for the dole of praise, — 

Hoarsely sung upon the highway 

With that obuluin da. titihi. 

Shame, shame to poet's .soul, 

Pining for such a dole. 
When Heaven-chosen to inherit 
The high throne of a" chief spirit ! 

' Sit still upon your thrones, 

O ye poetic ones ! 
And if, sooth, the world decry you. 
Let it pass unchallenged by you ! 

' Ye to yourselves suffice. 

Without its flatteries. 
Self-contentedly approve you 
Unto Him who sits above you, — 

' In prayers that upward mount 

Like to a fair-sunned fount 
Which, in gushing back upon you. 
Hath an upper music won you. 

' In faith — that still j>erceives 
No rose can shed her leaves. 

Far less, poet fall from mission — 

With an unfulfilled fruition ! 



RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 



245 



' In hope — that apprehends 
An end beyond these ends ; 
And great uses rendered duly 
By the meanest song sung truly ! 

' In thanks — for all the good. 

By poets understood — 
For the sound of seraphs moving 
Down the hidden depths of loving, — 



' For life, so lovely-vain, 

For death which breaks the chain, — 
For this sense of present sweetness, — 
And this yearning to completeness ! ' 

'For sights of things away. 
Through fissures of the clay. 
Promised things which shall be given 
And sung over, up in Heaven, — 



RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 



To the belfry, one by one, went the ringers from the sun. Toll slowly. 

And the oldest ringer said, ' Ours is music for the Dead, 
When the Rebecks are all done.' 

Six abeles i' the churchyard grow on the northside in a row. Toll slowly. 

And the shadows of their tops rock across the little slopes 
Of the grassy graves Ijelow. 

On the south side and the west, a small river runs in haste, Toll slvivly. 

And between the river flowing and the fair green trees a growing 
Do the dead lie at their rest. 

On the east I sate that day, up against a willow gray : Toll slowly. 

Through the rain of willow-branches, I could see the low hill-ranges. 
And the river on its way. 

There I sate beneath the tree, and the bell tolled solemnly. Toll slowly. 

While the trees and river's voices flowed between the solemn noises, — 
Yet death seemed more loud to me. 



There, I read this ancient rhyme, while the bell did all the tir 
And the solemn knell fell in with the tale of life and sin. 
Like a rhythmic fate sublime. 



Toll slowly. 



THE RHYME. 

Broad the forest stood (I read) on the hills of Linteged— Toll slo^vly. 

And three hundred years had stood mute adown each hoary wood. 
Like a full heart having prayed. ^ 

And the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west. Toll slowly. 

And but little thought was theirs, of the silent antique years. 
In the building of their nest. 

Down the sun dropt large and red, on the towers of Linteged, — Toll slowly. 

Lance and spear upon the height, Ijristling strange in fiery light. 
While the castle stood in shade. 



246 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 

There, the castle stood up black, with the red sun at its back, — Toll slowly. 

Like a sullen smouldering pyre, with a top that flickers fire. 
When the wind is on its track. 

And five hundred archers tall did besiege the castle wall, Toll slowly. 

And castle, seethed in blood, fourteen days and nights had stood. 
And to-night was near its fall 

Yet thereunto, blind to doom, three months since, a bride did come, — 

Toll slo^vly. 
One who proudly trod the floors, and softly whispered in the doors, 
•May good angels bless our home.' 

Oh, a bride of queenly eyes, with a front of constancies, — Toll slowly. 

Oh, a bride of cordial mouth, — where the untired smile of youth 
Did light outward its own sighs. 

'Twas a Duke's fair orphan-girl, and her uncle's ward, the Earl Toll slowly. 

Who betrothed her, twelve years old, for the sake of dowry gold. 
To his son Lord Leigh, the churl. 

But what time she had made good all her years of womanhood. Toll slowly. 

Unto both those Lords of Leigh, spake she out right sovranly. 
My will runneth as my blood 

' And while this same blood makes red this same right hand's veins,' she said,— 

Toll slowly. 
' 'Tis my will as lady free, not to wed a Lord of Leigh, 
But Sir Guy of Linteged.' 

The old Earl he smiled smooth, then he sighed for wilful youth. — Toll slo^vly. 
' Good my niece, that hand withal looketh somewhat soft and small. 
For so large a will, in sooth.' 

She, too, smiled by that same sign, — but her smile was cold and fine, — 

Toll slviuly. 
' Little hand clasps muckle gold ; or it were not worth the hold 
Of thy son, good uncle mine ! ' 

Then the young lord jerked his breath, and sware thickly in his teeth. 

Toll slowly. 
' He would wed his own betrothed, an she loved him, and she loathed. 
Let the life come or the death. 

Up she rose with scornful eyes, as her father's child might rise. Toll slowly. 

• Thy hound's blood, my Lord of Leigh, stains thy knightly heel,' quoth she, 
■ And he moans not where he lies, 

'Rut a woman's will dies hard, in the hall or on the sward ! — Toll slowly. 

'By that grave, my lords, which made me orphaned girl and dowered lady, 
I deny you wife and ward.' 



RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. a43 

Unto each she bowed her head, and swept past with lofty tread. Toll slowly. 
Ere the midnight- bell had ceased, in the chapel had the priest 
Blessed her, bride of Linteged. 

Fast and fain the bridal train along the night-storm ro('e amain : Toll slowly. 
Hard the steeds of lord and serf struck their hoofs out on the turf. 
In the pauses of the rain. 

Fast and fain the kinsmen's train along the storm pureued amain — Toll slowly. 
Steed on steed-track, dashing off — thickening, doubling hoof on hoof. 
In the pauses of the rain. 

And the bridegroom led the flight on his red -roan steed of might. Toll slowly, 
And the bride lay on his arm, still as if she feared no harm, 
Smiling out into the night. 

Dost thou fear ? ' he said at last ; — ' Nay ! ' she answered him in haste, — 

Toll slowly. 
* Not such death as we could find — only life with one behind — 
Ride on fast as fear — ride fast ! ' 

Up the mountain wheeled the steed — girth to ground, and fetlocks spread, — 

Toll slowly. 
Headlong bounds, and rocking flanks, — down he staggered — down the banks, 
To the towers of Linteged. 

High and low the serfs looked out, red the flambeaus tossed about, — 

Toll slowly. 
In the courtyard rose the cry — ' Live the Duchess and Sir Guy ! ' 
But she never heard them shout. 

On the steed she dropt her cheek, kissed his mane and kissed his neck, — 

Toll slowly. 
' I had happier died by thee, than lived on a Lady Leigh,' 
Were the first words she did speak. 

But a three months' joyaunce lay 'twixt that moment and to-day. Toll slowly. 
When five hundred archers tall stand beside the castle wall. 
To recapture Duchess May. 

And the castle standeth black, with the red sun at its back, — Toll slowly. 

And a fortnight's siege is done — and, except the Duchess, none 
Can misdoubt the coming wrack. 

Then the captain, young Lord Leigh, with his eyes so gray of blee. 

Toll slowly. 
And thin lips that scarcely sheath the cold.,white gnashing of his teeth. 
Gnashed in smiling, absently. 

Cried aloud — ' So goes the day, bridegroom fair of Duchess May ! — 

Toll slowly. 
Look thy last upon that sun. If thou seest to-morrow's one, 
'Twill be through a foot oi clay. 



,48 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 

' Ha, fair bride ! Dost hear no sound, save that moaning of the hound ? — 

Toll slowly. 
Thou and I have parted troth, — yet I keep my vengeance oath. 
And the other may come round. 

' Ha ! thy will is brave to dare, and thy new love past compare, — Toll slowly. 
Yet thine old love's falchion brave is as strong a thing to have. 
As the will of lady fair. 

' Peck on blindly, netted dove !— if a wife's name thee behove. Toll slowly 

Thou shalt wear the same to-morrow, ere the grave has hid the sorrow 
Of thy last ill-mated love. 

' O'er his fixed and silent mouth, thou and I will call back troth. Toll slowly 
He shall altar be and priest, — and he will not cry at least 
I forbid you, — I am loath ! ' 

•I will wring my fingers pale in the gauntlet of my mail. Toll shrwl 

' Little hand and nuickle gold ' close shall lie within my hold. 
As the sword did to prevail.' 

the little birds sane: east, and the little birds sang west. Toll slowL 
O, and laughed the Duche.ss May, and her soul did put away 

All his boasting, for a jest. 

In her chamber did she sit, laughing low to think of it, — Toll slowly. 

' Tower is strong and will is free — thou canst boast, my Lord of Leigh, 
But thouboasteth little wit.* 

In her tife-glass gazed she. and she blushed right womanly. Toll slowly. 

She blushed half from her disdain — half, her beauty was so plain, 
— ' Oath for oath, my Lord of Leigh ! ' 

Straight she called her maidens in — ' Since ye gave me blame herein. 

Toll slowly. 
That a bridal such as mine should lack gauds to make it fine. 
Come and shrive me from that sin. 

' It is three months gone to-day, since I gave mine hand away. Toll slowly. 

Bring the gold and bring the gem, we will keep bride state in them. 
While we keep the foe at bay. 

' On your arms I loose my hair ; — comb it smooth and crown it fair, 

Tcil slowly. 

1 would look in purple-pall from this lattice down the wall. 

And throw scorn to one that's there ! ' 

O, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west. Toll slowly. 

On the tower the castle's lord leant in silence on his sword. 
With an anguish in his breast. 



RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 949 

With a spirit-laden weight, did he lean down passionate. Toll slvwly. 

They have almost sapped the wall,— they will enter there withal. 
With no knocking at the gate. 

Then the sword he leant upon, shivered— snapped upon the stone, — 

Toll slowly. 

' Sword,' he thought, with inward laugh, ' ill thou servest for a staff 
When thy nobler use is done ! 

• Sword, thy nobler use is done !— tower is lost, and shame begun ; 

Toll slowly. 
If we met them in the breach, hilt to hilt or speech to speech. 
We should die there, each for one. 

• If we met them at the wall, we should singly, vainly fall, — Toll slowly. 
But if / die here alone, — then I die, who am but one. 

And die nobly for them all. 

• Five true friends lie for my sake — in the moat and in the brake, — 

Toll slowly. 
Thirteen warriors lie at rest, with a black wound in the breast. 
And not one of these will wake. 

' And no more of this shall be ! — heart -blood weighs too heavily — Toll slowly. 
And I could not sleep in grave, with the faithful and the brave 
Heaped around and over me. 

• Since young Clare a mother hath, and young Ralph a plighted faith, 

' Toll slowly. 

Since my pale young sister's cheeks blush like rose when Ronald speaks. 
Albeit never a word she saith — 

•These shall never die for me — life-blood falls too heavily : Toll tlowly. 

And if /die here apart,— o'er my dead and silent heart 
They shall pass out safe and free. 

' When the foe hath heard it said—' Death holds Guy of Linteged,' — 

Toll slowly. 
' That new corse new peace shall bring ; and a blessed, blessed thing, 
Shall the stone be at its head. 

' Then my friends shall pass out free, and shall bear my memory, — 

Toll slowly. 
Then my foes shall sleek their pride, soothing/air my widowed bride 
Whose sole sin was love of me. 

• With their words all smooth and sweet, they will front her and entreat 

Toll elawly. 
And their purple pall will spread underneath her fainting head 
While her tears drop over it. 



''S^ RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 

' She will weep her woman's tears, she will pray her woman's prayers, — 

Toll slmuly. 
But her heart is young in pain, and her hopes will spring again 
By the suntime of her years. 

' Ah, sweet May — ah, sweetest grief ! — once I vowed thee my belief. 

Toll slowly. 
That thy name expressed thy sweetness. — May of poets, in completeness ! 
Now my May -day seemeth brief.' 

AH these silent thoughts did swifti o'er his eyes grown strange and dim, — 

Toll slowly. 
Till his true men in the place, wished they stood there face to face 
With the foe instead of him. 

* One last oath, my friends that wear faithful hearts to do and dare ! — 

Toll slowly. 
Tower must fall, and bride be lost ! — swear me service worth the cost,' 
— Bold they stood around to swear. "" 

' Each man clxsp my hand and swear, by the deed we failed in there, 

ToU slowly. 
Not for vengeance, not for right, will ye strike one blow to-night ! * 
Pale they stood around — to swear. 

* One last boon, young Ralph and Clare ! faithful hearts to do and dare ! 

Toll slowly. 
Bring that steed up from his stall, which she kissed before you all, 
Guide him up the turret stair. 

* Ye shall hirness him aright, and lead upward to this height ! Toll slowly. 
Once in love and twice in war, hath heborneme strong and far. 

He shall bear me far to-night.' 

Then his men looked to and fro, when they heard him speaking so. 

Toll slowly. 
— ' 'Lxs ! the rkoble heart,' they thought, — 'he in sooth is grief-distraught. 
Would, we stood here with the foe ! * 

But a fire flashed from his eye, 'twixt their thought and their reply, — 

Toll slowly. 
' Have ye so much time to waste ! We who ride here, must ride fast, 
As we wish our foes to fly.' 

They have fetched the steed with care, in the harness he did wear. 

Toll slowly. 
Past the court and through the doors, across the rushes of the floors ; 
But they goad him up the stair. 

Then from out her bower chamb6re, did the Duchess May repair. Toll slowly. 
'Tell me now vhat is your need,' said the lady, ' of this steed, 
That y» goad him up the stair ? ' 



RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 



Calm she stood ; unbodkined through, fell her dark hair to her shoe, — 

Toll slowly. 
And the smile upon her face, ere she left the tiring-glass, 
Had not time enough to go. 

• Get thee back, sweet Duchess May 1 hope is gone like yesterday, — 

Toll slowly. 
One half-hour completes the breach ; and thy lord grows wild of speech. 
Get thee in, sweet lady, and pray. 

' In the east tower, high'st of all, — loud he cries for steed from stall. 
' Toll slowly. 

He would ride as far,' quoth he, ' as for love and victory. 
Though he rides the castle wall.' 

' And we fetch the steed from stall, up where never a hoof did fall. — 

Toll slowly. 
Wifely prayer meets deathly need I may the sweet Heavens hear thee plead. 
If he rides the castle-wall.' 

Low she dropt her head, and lower, till her hair coiled on the floor, — 

Toll slowly. 
And tear after tear you heard fall distinct as any word 
Which you might be listening for. 

Get thee in, thou soft ladie I — here is never a place for thee ! — Toll slowly- 

Braid thy hair and clasp thy gown, that thy beauty in its moan 
May find grace with Leigh of Leigh.' 

She stood up in bitter case, with a pale yet stately face. Toll slowly. 

Like a statue thunderstruck, which, though quivering, seems to look 
Right against the thunder-place. 

And her foot trod in, with pride, her own tears i' the stone beside, — 

Toll slowly. 
' Go to, faithful friends, go to ! — Judge no more what ladies do, — 
No, nor how their lords may ride ! ' 

Then the good steed's rein she took, and his neck did kiss and stroke : 

Toll slowly. 
Soft he neighed to answer her ; and then followed up the stair. 
For the love of her sweet look. 

Oh, and steeply, steeply wound up the narrow<stair around, — Toll slowly 

Oh, and closely speeding, step by step beside her treading. 
Did he follow, meek as hound. 

On the east tower, high'st of all, — there, where never a hoof did fall, — 

Toll slowly 
Out they swept, a vision steady, — noble steed and lovely lady. 
Calm as if in bower or stall I 



353 RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MA K 

Down she knelt at her lord's knee, and she looked up silendy,— Toll slowly. 
And he kissed her twice and thrice, for that look within her eyes 
Which he could not bear to see. 

Quoth he, ' Get thee from this strife,— and the sweet saints bless thy life !— 
- , . , T , . , . Toll slowly. 

In this hour, 1 stand in need of my noble red-roan steed — 
But no more of my noble wife.' 

Quoth she, ' Meekly have I done all thy biddings under sun : Toll slowly. 

But by all my womanhood, — which is proved so true and good, 
I will never do this one. 

' Now by womanhood's degree, and by wifehood's verity, Toll slowly 

In this hour if thou hast need of thy noble red-roan steed. 
Thou hast also need of 7ne. 

' By this golden ring ye see on this lifted hand pardie, Toll slowly. 

If this hour, on castle-wall, can be room for steed from stall. 
Shall be also room for me, 

' So the sweet saints with me be ' did she utter solemnly,) Toll slowly. 

' If a man, this eventide, on this castle-wall will ride. 
He shall ride the same with »i£.' 

Oh, he sprang up in the selle, and he laughed out bitter well, — Toll slo^vly. 

Wouldst thou ride among the leaves, as we used on other eves. 
To hear chime a vesper bell?' 

She clang closer to his knee — ' Ay, beneath the cypress tree I — Toll slowly. 

Mock me not ; for otherwhere than along the green-wood fair. 
Have I ridden fast with thee 1 

' Fast I rode with new-made vows, from my angry kinsman's house ! 

Toll slowly. 
What ! and would you men should wreck that I dared more for love's sake 
As a bride than as a spouse ? 

' What, and would you it should fall, as a proverb, before all, Toll slowly. 

That a bride may keep your side while through castlegate you ride. 
Yet eschew the castle-wall ? ' 



Ho ! the breach yawns into ruin, and roars up against her suing, — Toll slowly. 
With the inarticulate din, and the dreadful falling in— 
Shrieks of doing and undoing ! 

Twice he wrung her hands in twain ; but the small hands closed again. 

^ Toll slowly. 

Back he reined the steed— back, back ! but she trailed along his track 
With a frantic clasp and strain 1 



RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY. 253 

Evermore the foeman pour through the crash of window and door, — 

Toll slowly. 
And the shouts of Leigh and Leigh, and the shrieks of ' kill I ' and ' flee I ' 
Strike up clear amid the roar. 

Thrice he wrung her hands in twain, — but they closed and clung again, — 

Toll slowly. 
Wild she clung, as one, withstood, clasps a Christ upon the rood. 
In a spasm of deathly pain. 

She clung wild and she clung mute, — with her shuddering lips half-shut. 

Toll slo^uly. 
Her head fallen as half in swound, — hair and knee swept on the ground. 
She clung wild to stirrup and feet. 

Back he reined his steed back-thrown on the slippery coping-stone. 

TjU slowly. 
Back the iron hoofs did grind on the battlement behind, 
Whence a hundred feet went down. 

Aftd his heel did press and goad on the quivering flank bestrode. Toll slowly. 
' Friends and brothers, save my wife !— Pardon, sweet, in change for life,— 
But I ride alone to God.' 

Straight as if the Holy name had upbreathed her like a flame. Toll slo^vly. 

She upsprang, she rose upright, — in his selle she sat in sight ; 
By her love she overcame. 

And her head was on his breast, where she smiled as one at rest, — 

Toll slowly. 
' Ring,' she cried, ' O vesper-bell, in the beach- wood's old chapelle ! 
But the passing-bell rings best.' 

They have caught out at the rein, which Sir Guy threw loose — in vain, 

Toll slowly. 
For the horse in stark despair, with his front hoofs poised in air, 
On the last verge rears amain. 

Now he hangs, he rocks between — and his nostrils curdle In.^j Toll slowly. 

And he shivers head and hoof — and the flakes of foam fall ofFi 
And his face grows fierce and thin ! 

And a look of human woe from his staring eyes did go. Toll slo^vly. 

And a sharp cry uttered he, in a foretold agony 
Of tihe headlong death below, — 

And ' Ring, ring, — thou passing-bell,' still she cried, 'i' the old chapelle ! — 

Toll slowly. 
Then Back-toppling, crushing back, a dead weight flung out to wrack. 
Horse and riders overtell 1 



Oh, the little birds sang east, and little birds sang west, — Toll sl(nvly. 

And I read this ancient Rhyme in the churchyard, while the chim« 
Slowly tolled for one at rest. 



«54 THE LADY'S " YES." 

The abeles moved in the sun, and the river smooth did run, Toll slowly. 

And the ancient Rhyme rang strange, with its passion and its change. 
Here, where all done lay undone. 

And beneath a willow tree, I a little grave did see, Toll slowly. 

Where was graved,— Here undefiled, lieth Maud, a three-vear child. 
Eighteen hundred forty-three. 

Then, O Spirits— did I say — ye who rode so fast that day, — Toll slowly. 

Did star-wheels and angel-wings, with their holy winnowings, 
Keep beside you all the way ? 

Though in passion ye would dash, with a blind and heavy crash. Toll slowly. 
Up against the thick-bossed shield of God's judgment in the field, — 
Though your heart and brain were rash, — 

Now, your will is all unwilled — now your pulses are all stilled, — Toll slowly. 
Now, ye lie as meek and mild (whereso laid) as Maud the child. 
Whose small grave was lately filled. 

Beating heart and burning brow, ye are very patient now, Toll slozvly. 

And the children might be bold to pluck the kingcups from your mould 
Ere a month had let them grow. 

And you let the goldfinch sing in the alder near in spring, Toll slowly. 

Let her build her nest and sit all the three weeks out on it. 
Murmuring not at anything. 

In your patience ye are strong ; cold and heat ye take not wrong : Toll slowly. 
When the trumpet of the angel blows eternity's evangel. 
Time will seem to you not long. 

Oh, the little birds sang east, nnd the little birds sang west. Toll slowly. 

And I said in underbreath,— all our life is mixed with death. 
And who knoweth which is best ? 

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west. Toll slowly. 

And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness, — 
Round our restlessness, His rest. 



THE LADY'S ' YES. ' I Call me false or call me free- 
Vow, whatever lights may shine, 

• Yes ! ' I answered you last night ; No man on your face shall see 

• No ! ' this morning. Sir, I say, Any grief for change on mine. 

Colors seen by candle-light Yet the sin is on us both— 

Will not look the same by day. Time to dance is not to woo— 

,,^, , . , , ... - Wooing light makes fickle troth — 

When the viols played their best. y^orn of 7ne recoils on yotc : 

l>ntnps above, and laughs below—- 

Loz>e w^ sounded like a jest, Learn to win a lady's faith 

Fit for Yes or fit for No. Nobly, as the thing is high ; 



L. E. L.'S LAST QUESTION. 



«5S 



Bravely, as for life and death — 
With loyal gravity 

Lead her from the festive boards, 
Point her to the starry skies, 

Guard her, by your truthful words, 
Pure from courtship's flatteries. 

By your truth she shall be true — 
Ever true, as wives of yore — 

And her Yes, once said to you, 
Shall be Yes for evermore. 



L. E. L.'S LAST QUESTION. 

Do you think of me as I think of you 7' 



' Do j'^ou think of me as I think of you, 
My friends, my friends?' — She said it 

from the sea, 
The English minstrel in her minstrelsy ; 
While, under brighter skies than erst 

she knew, 
Her heart grew dark, — and groped 

there as the blind. 
To reach across the waves friends left 

behind — 
' Do you think of me as I think of you ?' 

It seemed not much to ask— As loi you ? 
We all do ask the same. No eyelids 

cover 
Within the meekest eyes, that question 

over. 
And little in the world the Loving do 
But sit (among the rocks?) and listen 

for 
The echo of their own love evermore — 
' Do you think of me as I think of you ?' 

Love-learned, she had sung of love and 
love, — 

And like a child that, sleeping with dropt 
head 

Upon the fairy-hook he lately read, 

Whatever household noises round him 
• move, 

Hears in his dream some elfin turbu- 
lence, — 



Even so, suggestive bo her inward sense 
All sounds of life assumed one tune of 
love. 

And when the glory of her dream with- 
drew. 

When knightly guests and courtly pa- 
geantries 

Were broken in her visionary eyes 

By tears the solemn seas attested true,— 

Forgetting that sweet lute beside her 
hand, 

She asked not, — Do you praise me, O 
my land ? — 

But, — • Think ye of me, friends, as I of 
you ?' 

Hers was the hand that played for many 

a year 
Love's silver phrase for England, — 

smooth and well ! 
Would God, her heart's more inward 

oracle 
In that lone moment, might confirm her 

dear ! 
For when her questioned friends in 

agony 
Made passionate response — * We think 

of thee' 
Her place was in the dust, too deep to 

hear. 

Could she not wait to catch their ans- 
wering breath ? 

Was she content — content— with ocean's 
sound, 

Which dashed its mocking infinite 
around 

One thirsty for a little love ? — beneath 

Those stars content, ^ where last her 

song had gone, — 
They mute and cold in radiant life,— as 
soon 

Their singer was to be, in darksome 
death ?* 

Bfing your vain answers — cry, 'We 

think of thee !' 
How think ye of her? warm in long 

ago 
Delights ?^or crowned with budding 

bays ? Not so. 

* Hei- lyric on the polar Btar csitie home with 
her latent papers. 



256 



A CHILD ASLEEP. 



None smile and none are crowned 

where lieth she, 
With all her visions unfulfilled save 

one — 
Her childhood's — of the palm-trees in 

the sun — 
And lo ! their shadow on her sepulchre ! 

' Do ye think of me as I think of you?' — 

O friends,— O kindred,— O dear brother- 
hood 

Of all the world ! what arc we, that we 
should 

For covenants of long affection sue ? 

Why press so near each other when the 
touch 

Is barred by graves? Not much, and 
yet too much, 

Is this 'Think of me as I think of you.' 

But while on mortal lips I shape anew 

A sigh to mortal issues, — verily 

Above the unshaken stars that see us 

die, 
A vocal pathos rolls ! and He who drew 
All life from dust, and for all, tasted 

death. 
By death and life and love, appealing, 

saith, 
■Do you think of me as I tJiink of you ? 



THE POET AND THE BIRD. 

A FABLE. 

Said a people to a poet — ' Go out from 

among us straightway ! 
While we are thinking earthly things, 

thou singest of divine. 
There's a little fair brown mghtingale, 

who, sitting in the gateway, 
Makes fitter music to our ear, than any 

song of thine !' 

The poet went out weeping — the night- 
ingale ceased chantmg ; 

' Now, wherefore, O thou nightingale, 
is all thy sweetness done ?' 

' I cannot sing my earthly things, the 
heavenly poet wanting. 

Whose highest harmony includes the 
lowest under sun.' 



The poet went out weeping,- — and diedl 

abroad, bereft there — i 

The bird flew to his grave and died] 

amid a thousand wails 1 i 

And, when I last came by the place, Ij 

swear the music left there 
Was only of the poet's song, and not] 

the nightingale's I 



A CHILD ASLEEP. 

How he sleepeth ! having drunken 
Weary childhood's mandragore. 
From his pretty eyes have sunken 
Pleasures to make room for more- 
Sleeping near the withered no.segay^ 
which he pulled the day before. 

Nosegays I leave them for the wak- 
ing. 

Throw them earthward where they < 
grew : 
Dim are such beside the breaking 
Amaranths he looks unto — 
Folded eyes see brighter colors than the 
open ever do. 

Heaven-flowers, rayed by shadows 
golden 
From the palms they sprang be- 
neath 
Now perhaps divinely holden, 
Swing against him in a wreath — 
We may think so from the quickening 
of his bloom and of his breath. 

Vision unto vision calleth. 

While the young child dreamcth 
on : 
Fair, O dreamer, thee befalleth 
With the glory thou hast won ! 
Darker wert thou in the garden, yester- 
morn by summer sun. 

We should see the spirits ringing 

Round thee, — were the cloiidsaway 
'Tis the child-heart draws them, 
singing 



The little friend. 



257 



In the silent-seeming clay- 
Singing ! — Stars that seem the mutest, go 
in music all the way. 

As the moths around a taper, 
As the bees around a rose, 
As the gnats around a vapor, 
So the spirits group and close 
Round about a holy childhood, as if 
drinking its repose. 

Shapes of brightness overlean thee. 

With their diadems of youth 

On the ringlets which half screen thee 

While thou smilest, . . not in sooth 
T^jV smile, . . but the overfair one, dropt 
from some ethereal mouth. 



Haply it is angel's duty. 

During slumoer, shade by shade 
To fine down his childish beauty 
To the thing it must be made, 
Ere the world shall bring it praises, or 
the tomb shall see it fade. 

Softly, softly ! make no noises ! 

Now he lieth dead and dumb — 
Now he hears the angels' voices 
Folding silence in the room — 
Now he muses deep the meaning of the 
Heaven- words as they come. 

Speak not ! he is consecrated — 

Breathe no breath across his eyes : 
Lifted up and separated 
On the hand of God he lies. 
In a sweetness beyond touching, — held 
in cloistral sanctities. 

Could ye bless him— -father— mother ? 

Bless the dimple in his cheek ? 
Dare ye look at one another. 
And the benediction speak ? 
Would ye not break out in weeping, 
and confess yourselves too weak ? 

He is harmless — ye are sinful, 

Ye are troubled, — he at ease : 
From his slumber, virtue winful 
Floweth outward with increase — 
Dare not bless him ! but be blessed by 
his peace — and go in peace. 



THE LITTLE FRIEND. 

—TO 6' Tjfir; ef o<^OaAju.or a-ny\\r\KvQtv, 
Marcus Antoninus, 
written in the book which she 
made and sent to me. 

The book thou givest, dear as such. 

Shall bear thy dearer name ; 
And many a word the leaves shall touch. 

For thee who form'dst the same ! 
And on them, many a thought shall grow 

'Neath memory's rain and sun. 
Of thee, glad child, who dost not know 

That thought and pain are one 1 

Yes ! thoughts of thee who satest oft, 

A while since, at my side — 
So wild to tame,' — to move so soft. 

So very hard to chide : 
The childish vision at thine heart. 

The lesson on the knee ; 
The wandering looks which ivould de- 
part 

Like gulls across the sea ! 

The laughter, which no half-belief 

In wrath could all suppress ; 
The falling tears, which looked like 
grief. 

And were but gentleness ; 
The fancies sent, for bliss, abroad. 

As Eden's were not done — 
Mistaking still the cherub's sword 

For shining of the sun ! 

The sportive speech with wisdom in't — 

The question strange and bold — 
The childish fingers in the print 

Of God's creative hold : 
The praying words in whispers said. 

The sin with sobs confest ; 
The leaning of the young meek head 

Upon the Saviour's breast ! 

The gentle consciousness of praise 

With hues that went and came ; 
The brighter blush, a word could raise. 

Were that— 2. father's name ! 
The shadow on thy smile for each 

That on his face could fall 1 
So quick hath love been . thee to teach. 

What soon it tcacheth all. 



«58 



THE MOURNING MOTHER. 



Sit still as erst beside his feet I 

The future days are dim, — 
Bat those will seem to thee most sweet, 

Which keeps thee nearest him I 
Sit at his feet in quiet mirth, 

And let him see arise 
A clearer sun and greener earth 

Within thy loving eyes ! — 

Ah loving eyes ! that used to lift 

Your childhood to my face — 
That leave a memory on the gift 

I look on in your place — 
May bright-eyed hosts your guardians 
be 

From all but thankful tears, — 
While, brightly as ye turned on me. 

Ye meet th' advancing years ! 



THE MOURNING MOTHER 
(of the dead bund.) 

Dost thou weep, mourning mother, 

For thy blind boy in the grave ? 
That no more with each other 

Sweet counsel ye can have ? — 
That he, left dark by nature, . 

Can never more be led 
By thee, maternal creature, 

Along smooth paths instead ? 
That thou canst no more show him 

The sunshine, by the heat ; 
The river's silver flowing. 

By murmurs at his feet? 
The foliage, by its coolness ; 

The roses, by their smell ; 
And all creation's fulne&s. 

By Love's invisible? 
Weepest tho-i to behold not 

His meek blind eyes again, — 
Closed doorways which were folded. 

And prayed against in vain — 
And under which, sat smiling 

The child -mouth evermore, 
As one who watch eth, wiling 

Tiie time bj', at the door? 
And weepest thou to feel not 

His clinging hand on thine — 
Which now, at dream time, will not 

Its cold touch disentwine? 
And weepest thou still ofter 

Oh, nevermore to mark 



His low soft words, made softer 

By speaking in the dark ? 
Weep on, thou mourning mother I 

But since to him when living. 

Thou wert both sun and moon. 
Look o'er his grave, surviving, 

From a high sphere alone 1 
Sustain that exaltation — 

Expand that tender light ; ' 
And hold in mother passion 

Thy Blessed in thy sight. 
See how he went out straightway 

From the dark world he knew, — 
No twilight in the gateway 

To mediate 'twixt the two, — 
Into the sudden glory, 

Out of the dark he trod. 
Departing from before thee 

At once to Light and God! — 
For the first face, beholding 

The Christ's in its divine, — 
For the first place, the golden 

And tideless hyaline : 
With trees, at lasting summer, 

That rock to songful sound. 
While angels, the new-comer, 

Wrap a still smile around. 
Oh, in the blessed psalm now. 

His happy voice he tries, 
Spreading a thicker palm-bough. 

Than others, o'er his eyes. 
Yet still, in all the singing, 

Thinks haply of thy song 
Which, in his life's first springing, 

Sang to him all night long. 
And wishes it beside him, 

With kissing lips that cool 
And soft did overglide him. 
To make the sweetness full. 

Look up, O mourning mother ; 

Thy blind boy walks in light I 
Ye wait for one another. 

Before God's infinite! 
But thou art now the darkest. 

Thou mother left below, — 
Tkou, the sole blind, — thou markest, 

Content that it be so : — 
Until ye two have meeting 

Where Heaven's pearl-gate is, 
And he shall lead thy feet in 

As once tliou leddest his. 
Wait on, thou mourning mother. 



CALLS ON THE HEART. 



CALLS ON THE HEART. 



Free Heart, that singest to-day. 
Like a bird on the first green spray ; 
Wilt thou go forth to the world. 
Where the hawk hath his wings un- 
furled 
To follow, perhaps, thy way 1 
Where the tamer, thine own will bind. 
And, to make thee sing, will blind. 
While the little hip grows for the free 
behind ? 

Heart, wilt thou go ? 
— ' No, no ! 
Free hearts are better so.' 



The world, thou hast heard it told. 
Has counted its robber-gold, 
And the pieces stick to the hand. 
The world goes riding it fair and grand. 
While the truth is bought and sold ! 
World-voices east, world-voices west. 
They call thee, heart, from thine early 
rest, 
'Come hither, come hither and be our 
guest.' 

Heart, wilt thou go ? 
— ' No, no ! 
Good hearts are calmer so.' 



Who calleth thee. Heart? World's 

Strife, 
With a golden heft to his knife : 
World's Mirth, with a finger fine 
That draws on a board in wine 
Her blood-red plans of life : 
World's Gain, with a brow knit down : 
World's Fame, with a laurel crown. 
Which rustles most as the leaves turn 
brown — 

Heart, wilt thou go ? 
— ' No, no ! 
Calm hearts are wiser so.' 



Hast heard that Proserpina 

(Once fooling) was snatched away, 

To partake the dark king's seat, — 



And that the tears ran fast on hei 
feet 
To think how the sun shone j'cster- 
day? 
With her ankles sunken in asphodel 
She wept for the roses of earth, which 
fell 
From her lap when the wild car drave 
to hell. 

Heart, wilt thou go ? 
— ' No, no ! 
Wise hearts are warmer so.' 



And what is this place not seen. 
Where hearts may hide serene ? 
' 'Tis a fair still house well-kept. 
Which humble thoughts have swept, 
And holy prayers made clean. 
There, I sit with Love in the sun. 
And we two never have done 
Singing sweeter songs than are guessed 
by one.^ 

Heart, wilt thou go ? 
— * No, no ! 
Warm hearts are fuller so.' 



O Heart, O Love,— I fear 
That Love may be kept too near. 
Hast heard, O Heart, that tale, 
How Love may be false and frail 

To a heart once holden dear ? 
— ' But this true Love of mine 
Clings fast as the clinging vine. 
And mingles pure as the grapes in wine.' 
Heart, wilt thou go ? 
— 'No, no ! 
Full hearts beat higher so.' 



O Heart, O Love, beware ! — 
Look up, and boast not there. 
For who has twirled at the pin ? 
'Tis the world, between Death and 
Sin, — 
The world, and the world's De- 
spair ! 
And Death has quickened his pace 
To the hearth, with a mocking face. 
Familiar as Love, in Love's own place — . 
Heart, wilt thou go ? 
'Still, no! 
■ High hearts must grieve even so.* 



HUMAN LIFE* S MISERY. 



VIII. 
The house is waste to-day, — 
The leaf has dropt from the spray, 
The thorn, prickt through to the 

song : 
If summer doeth no wrong 

The winter will, they say. 
Sing, Heart ! what heart replies ? 
In vain we were calm and wise, 
If the tears unkissed stand in our eyes. 
Heart, wilt thou go ? 
— ' Ah, no ! 
Grieved hearts must break even so. 



Howbeit all is not lost : 
The warm noon ends in frost. 
The worldly tongues of promise. 
Like sheep-bells, die off from us 

On the desert hills cloud-crossed 1 

Yet, through the silence, shall 

Pierce the death-angel's call. 

And 'Come up hither,' recover all. 

Heart, wilt thou go ? 

— ' I go ! 

Broken hearts triumph so.' 



HUMAN LIFE'S MISERY. 



We sow the glebe, we reap the corn, 
We btiild the house where we may 
rest ; 
And then, at moments, suddenly. 
We look up to the great wide sky. 
Enquiring wherefore we were born . . . 
For earnest, or for jest ? 



The senses folding thick and dark 
About the stifled soul within, 

We guess diviner things beyond. 

And yearn to them with yearning fond ; 

We strike out blindly to a mark 
Believed in, but not seen 



We vibrate to the pant and thrill 
Wherewith Eternity has curled 
In serpent-twine about God's seat ! 



While, freshening upward to his feet. 
In gradual growth His full-leaved will 
Expands from world to world. 



And in the tumult and excess 

Of act and passion under sun, 
We sometimes hear — oh, soft and far. 
As silver star did touch with star. 
The kiss of Peace and Righteousness 
Through all things that are done. 



God keeps his holy mysteries 

Just on the outside of man's dream ! 
In diapason slow, we think 
To hear their pinions rise and sink. 
While they float pure beneath Hiseyc^ 
Like swans adown a stream. 



Abstractions, are they, from the forms 
Of His great beauty ? — exaltations 

From His great glory ? — strong previ- 
sions 

Of what we shall be ? — intuitions 

Of what we are — in calms and storms. 
Beyond our peace and passions ? 



Things nameless ! which, in passing so. 
Do stroke us with a subtle grace. 

We say, ' Who passes ? ' — they are 
dumb : 

We cannot see them go or come : 

Their touches fall soft — cold — as snow 
Upon a blind man's face. 



Yet, touching so, they draw above 
Our common thoughts to Heaven's 
unknown — 

Our daily joy and pain, advance 

To a divine significance, — 

Our human love — O mortal love, 
That light is not its own ! 



And, sometimes, horror chills our blood 

To be so near such mystic Things ; 
And we wrap round us, for defence, 



A DEAD ROSE. 



Our purple manners, moods of sense — 
As angels, from the face of God, 
Stand hidden in their wings. 



And, sometimes, through Life's hea\ 
swound. 
We grope for them! — with strangles 
breath 
We stretch our hands abroad and try 
To reach them in our agony, — 
And widen, so, the broad life-wound. 
Which soon is large enough for deaili 



INCLUSIONS. 



Oh, wilt thou have my hand. Dear, to 

lie along in thine ? 
As a little stone in a running stream, it 

seems to lie and pine ! 
Now drop the poor pale hand. Dear, . . 

unfit to plight with thine. 



Oh, wilt thou have my cheek. Dear, 
drawn closer to thine own ? 

My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, 
by many a tear run down. 

Now leave a little space, Dear, . . lest 
it should wet thine own. 



Oh, must thou have my soul. Dear 
commingled with thy soul 1 — 

Red grows the cheek, and warm the 
hand, . . the part is in the whole ! . . 

Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, 
when soul is joined to soul. 



INSUFFICIENCY. 



There is no one beside thee, and no 
one above thee ; 
Thou standest alone, as the nightin- 
gale sings ! 



Yet my words that wtjuld praise thee 

are impotent things, 
For none can express thee though all 

should approve thee 1 
love thee so. Dear, that I only can 

love thee. 



Say, what can I do for thee ? . . wciiiy 
thee . . grieve thee ? 
Lean on my shoulder . . . new bur- 
dens to add ? 
Weep my tears over thee . . making 
thee sad ? 
Oh, hold me not — love me not ? let me 

retrieve thee ! 
I love thee so. Dear, that I only can 
leave thee. 



A DEAD ROSE. 



O ROSE ! who dares to name thee ? 
No louger roseate now, nor soft, nor 

sweet ; 
But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble- 
wheat, — 
Kept seven years in a drawer — thy 
titles shame thee. 



II. 

The breeze that used to blow thee 
Between the hedge-row thorns, and take 

away 
An odour up the lane to last all day, — 
If breathing now, — unsweetened 
would forego thee. 



The sun that used to smite thee, 
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn. 
Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower 
to burn, — 
If shining now, — with not a hue would 
*■ light thee. 



The dew that iLsed to wet thee. 
And, white first, grow incarnadined be- 
cause 



WOMAN'S SHORTCOMINGS. 



It lay upon thee where the crimson was. 
If dropping now, — would darken 
where it met thee. 



The fly that lit upon thee. 
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet 
Along thy leafs pure edges after heat, — 

If lighting now, — would coldly over- 
run thee. 



The bee that once did suck thee, 
And build thy perfumed ambers up his 

hive. 
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce 
alive, — 
If passing now, — would blindly over- 
look thee. 



The heart doth recognise thee. 
Alone, alone ! The heart doth smt 

thee sweet. 
Doth view thee fair, doth judge tlu 
most complete — 
Perceiving all those changes that d! 
guise thee. 



Yes, and the heart doth owe thee 
More love, dead rose ! than to siuh 

roses bold 
As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold ! — 
Lie still upon this heart— which breaks 
below thee. 



A WOMAN'S SHORTCOMINGS. 



She trembles her fan in a sweetness 
dumb, 
As her thoughts were beyond recall- 
ing ; 
With a glance for one, and a glance for 
some. 
From her eyelids rising and falling. 
— Speaks common words with a blush- 
ful air ; 
—Hears bold words, unreproving : 
But her silence says — what she never 
will swear — 
And love seeks better loving. 



Go, lady ! lean to the night-guitar. 

And drop a smile to the bringer ; 
Then smile as sweetly, when he is far. 

At the voice of an in-door singer 1 
Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes ; 

Glance lightly, on their removing ; 
And join new vows to old perjuries — 

But dare not call it loving ! 



Unless you can think, when the song is 
done, 
No other is soft in the rhythm ; 
Unless you can feel, when left by One, 

That all men else go with him ; 
Unless you can know, when upraised by 
his breath. 
That your beauty itself wants prov- 
ing ; 
i Unless you can swear — ' Fo r^ life, fo r 

' death!' — ■' "' 

Oh, fear to call it loving ! 



She has laughed as softly as if she sighed I 

She has counted six and over. 
Of a purse well filled, and a heart well 
tried — 
Oh, each a worthy lover ! 
They ' give her time ;' for her soul must 
slip 
Where the world has set the grooving ; 
She will lie to none with her fair r«d 
lip- 
But love seeks truer loving. 



' fUnlessyou can muse in a crowd all day, 
i \ On the absent face that fixed you ; 
iiUnless you can love, as the angels may, 
{ With the breadth of heaven betwixt 

I yo" ; 

Unless you can dream that his faith is 
fast. 
Through behooving and unbehooving; 
Unless you can die when the dream is 
past — 
Oh, never call it loving 1 



A YEAR'S SPINNING. 



He listened at the porch that day 
To hear the wheel go on, and on, 

And then it stopped — ran back a way — 
While through the door he brought 

the sun : 
But now my spinning is all done. 



He sate beside me, with an oath 
That love ne'er ended, once begun ; 

I smiled believing for us both. 
What was the truth for only one. 
And now my spinning is all done. 



My mother cursed me that I heard 
A young man's wooing as I spun. 

Thanks, cruel mother, for that word, 
For 1 have, since, a harder known 1 
And now my spinning is all done. 



I thought — O God !— my first-born's cry 
Both voices to my ear would drown : 

I listened in mine agony — 

It was the silence rnade me groan ! 
And now my spinning is all done. 



Bury me 'twi.vt my mother's grave. 
Who cursed me on her death-bed lone. 

And my dead baby's — (God it save !) 
Who, not to bless me, would not moan. 
And now my spinning is all done. 



A stone upon my heart and head. 
But no name written on the stone ! 

Sweet neighbours ! whisper low instead, 
' This sinner was a loving one — 
And now her spinning is all done.' 



And let the door ajar remain. 
In case he should pass by anon ; 

And leave the wheel out very plam. 
That HE, when passing in the sun. 
May see the spinning is all done. 



CHANGE UPON CHANGE. 



Five months ago, the stream did flow, 
The lilies bloomed within the sedge ; 
And we were lingering to and fro, — 
Where none will track thee in this snow. 

Along the stream, beside the hedge. 
Ah, sweet, be free to love and go ! 
For if I do not hear thy foot. 
The frozen river is as mute. 
The flowers have dried down to the 
root ; 
And why, since these be changed since 
May, 
Shouldst thou change less than they? 



And slow, slow, as the winter snow. 
The tears have drifted to mine eyes ; 

And my poor cheeks, five months ago. 

Set blushing at thy praises so. 
Put paleness on for a disguise. 

Ah, sweet, be free to praise and go ! 
For if my face is turned to pale. 
It was thine oath that first did fail,— 
It was thy love proved false and frail ! 
And why, since these be changed 
enow. 
Should / change less than thou f 



A REED. 



I AM no trumpet, but a reed : 

No flattering breath shall from me lead 

A silver sound, a hollow sound ! 
I will not ring, for priest or king. 
One blast that in re-echoing 

Would leave a bondsman faster bound. 



»»4 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



I am no trumpet, but a reed, — 
A broken reed, the wind indeed 

Left flat upon a dismal shore : 
Yet if a Httle maid, or child. 
Should sigh within it, earnest-mild. 

This reed will answer evermore. 



I am no trumpet, but a reed : 
Go, tell the fishers, as they spread 

Their nets along the river's edge, 
I will not tear their nets at all, 
Norpierce their hands if they should fall: 

Then let them leave me in the sedge. 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



[Thib Poem contains the impressions of tlie writer upon events In Tuscany of wliicli she •wa» 
• witness. " From a window," tlie critic may demur. Siie bows to tiie objection in the very 
title of her work. No continuous uarrative, nor exix>3itiou of political pltilosoptiy, is attempted 
by lier. It is a simple story of peraonal impressions, wiiose only value is in the intensity with 
which they were received, as proving her warm affection for a beautiful and unfortunate coun- 
try; and the sincerity with which they are related, as indicating her own good faith and free- 
dom from all partizanship. 

Of the two parts of this Poem, the first was written nearly three years ago, while the KPcond 
resumes the actual situation of 1H51. The diacrepancy between the two parts is a siillicient 
guarantee to the public of the truthfulness of the writer, who, thoujjh sho certainly escaped the 
epidemic " falling sickness'' of enthusiasm for Pio Nono, takes shame upon herself that she 
believed, like a woman, some royal oaths, and lost sight of the probable consetiuenccs ot some 
obvious popular detects. If the discrepancy should be painful to the reader, let him understand 
that to the writer it has been more so. But such discrepancy we are called upon to accept at 
every hour by the conditions of our nature . . . the discrepancy Ijetween aspiration and perform- 
anc*, l>etween faith and disillusion, between hope and fact. 

" Oh trusted, broken prophecy, 
Oh richest fortune sourly crost, 
Born for the future, to the future lost !" 
Nay, not lost to the future in this case. The future of Italy shall not be disinherited.— Fuok- 
INCK, 1851.} 



PART I* 



I HEARD last night a little child go sing- 
■ ing 

'Neath Casa Guidi windows, by the 
church, 
" O beila Uberta, O Bella !" stringing 
The same words still on notes he went 
in search 
So high for, you concluded the upspring- 
ing 
Of such a nimble bird to sky from 
perch 
Must leave the whole bush in a tremble 
green ; 



And that the heart of Italy must beat. 
While such a voice had leave to rise 
serene 
'Twixt church and palace of a Flor- 
ence street ! 
A little child, too, who not long had been 
By mother's finger steadied on hu 
feet; 
And still O lella Uberta he sang. 



Then I thought, musing, of the iuiiu- 
merous 
Sweet songs which still for Italy out- 
rang 



CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 



»«5 



From older singers' lips, who sang not 
thus 
Exulting!^ and purely, yet, with pang 
Sheathed into music, touched the heart 
of us 
So finely that the pity scarcely pained I 
I thought how Filicaja led on others, 

Bewailers for their Italy enchained, 
And how they called her childless 
among mothers. 
Widow of empires, ay, and scarce re- 
frained 
Cursing her beauty to her face as bro- 
thers 
Might a shamed sister's — ' Had she 
been less fair 
She were less wretched,' — how, evoking 
so 
From congregated wrong and heaped 
despair 
Of men and women writhing under 
blow. 
Harrowed and hideous in a filthy lair. 
Some personating Image, wherein woe 
Was wrapt in beauty from oflfending 
much. 
They called it Cybele. or Niobe, 

Or laid it corpse-like on a bier for 
such. 
Where all the world might drop for Italy 
Those cadenced tears which burn not 
where they touch, — 
'Juliet of nations, canst thou die as we ? 
And was the violet crown that crowned 
thy head 
So over large, though new buds made it 
rough. 
It slipped down and across thine eye- 
lids dead, 
O sweet, fair Juliet?* Of such songs 
enough ; 
Too many of such complaints I Be- 
hold, instead, 
Void at Verona, Juliet's marble trough !* 

As veid as that is, are all images 
Men set between themselves and actual 
wrong. 
To catch the weight of pity, meet the 
stress 
Of conscience ; — since 'tis easier to gaze 
long 

• They show at Verona an empty trough of 
■toa« as the tomb of Juliet. 



On mournful masfcs, and sad effigies. 
Than oh real, live, weak creatures 
crushed by strong. 



For me who stand in Italy to-day 
Where worthier poets stood and sang 
before, 
I kiss their footsteps, yet their words 
gainsay. 
I can but muse in hope upon this shore 

Of golden Arno as it shoots away 
Through Florence's heart beneath her 
bridges four ! 
Bent bridges, seeming to strain oflf 
like bows. 
And tremble while the arrowy undcr- 
tide 
Shoots on and cleaves the marble as 
it goes. 
And strikes up palace-walls on either 
side. 
And froths the cornice out in glitter- 
ing rows. 
With doors and windows quaintly mul- 
tiplied. 
And terrace-sweeps, and gazers upon 
all. 
By whom if flower or kerchief were 
thrown out 
From any lattice there, the same 
would fall 
Into the river underneath no doubt, 
It runs so close and fast 'twixt wall 
and wall. 
How beautiful ! The mountains from 
without 
In silence listen for the word said 
next. 
What word will men say, — here where 
Giotto planted 
His campanile, like an unperplexed 
Fine question Heaven-ward touching 
the things granted 
A noble people who, being greatly 
.. vexed 

In act, in aspiration keep undaunted ! 
What word will God say ? Michel's 
Night and Day 
And Dawn and Twilight wait in the 
marble scorn,* 



• These famous statues recline in the Sagres- 
tia Nuova, on the tombs of Glullano de' Me- 
dici, third sou of Lorenzo the Mugnificent, aud 



ft66 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



Like dogs upon a dunghill, couched 

on clay 

From whence the Medicean stamp's 

outworn, 

The final putting off of all sueh sway 

By all such hands, and freeing of the 

unborn 
In Florence and the great world outside 

Florence 
Three hundred years his patient statues 

wait 
In that small chapel of the dim St. Law- 
rence ! 
Day's eyes are breaking bold and pas- 
sionate 
Over his shoulder, and will flash ab- 
horrence 
On darkness and with level looks meet 
fate. 
When once loose from that marble 
film of theirs ; 
The Night has wild dreams in her sleep ; 
the Dawn 
Is haggard as the sleepless. Twilight 
wears 
A sort of horror ; as the veil withdrawn 
'Twixt the artist's soul and works had 
left them heirs 
Of speechless thoughts which would not 
quail nor fawn. 
Of angers and contempts, of hope and 
love ; 
For not without a meaning did he 
place 
Princely Urbino on the seat above 
With everlasting shadow on his face ; 
While the slow dawns and twilights 
disapprove 
The ashes of his long-extinguished race. 
Which never more shall clog the feet 
of men. 



I do believe, divinest Angelo, 

'Ihat winter-hour Via Larga, when, 
They bade thee build a statue up in 
snow,* 

Lorenzo of Urbino, \\\* Kiandson. Strozzi's 
epigram on the Night, witli Micliaul Angelo's 
rejoinder, is well Icnown. 

• Tliis mocking task waa set by Pietro, tlie 
unworthy Buccessor of Lorenzo the Magnili- 
cent. 



And straight that marvel of thine art 
again 
Dissolved beneath the suij's Italian 
glow, 
Thine eyes, dilated with the plastic 
passion. 
Thawing too, in drops of wounded man- 
hood, since. 
To mock alike thine art and indigna- 
tion, 
Laughed at the palace-window the new 
prince, — 
(' Aha ! this genius needs for exalta- 
tion. 
When all's said, and howe'er the proud 

may wince, 
A little marble from our princely 
mines ! ') 
I do believe that hour thou laughedst 
too. 
For the whole sad world and for thy 

Florentines 
After these few tears — which were only 
few ! 
That a-, beneath the sun, the grand 
white lines 
Of thy snow statue trembled and with- 
drew, — 
Thy head, erect as Jove's, being 
palsied first. 
The eyelids flattened, the full brow 
turned blank, — 
The right hand, raised but now as if 
it cursed, 
Dropt, a mere snowball, (till the people 
sank 
Their voices, though a louder laugh- 
ter burst 
From the royal window,) thou couldst 
proudly thank 
God and the prince for promise and 
presage. 
And laugh the laugh back, I think 
verily. 
Thine eyes being purged by tears of 
righteous rage 
To read a wrong into a prophecy. 
And measure a true great man's heri- 
tage 
Against a mere great duke's posterity. 
1 think thy soul said then, ' I do not 
need 
A princedom and its quarries after all ; 



CASA GUIDI WINDOW3. 



867 



For if I write, paint, carve a word, 
indeed, 
On book or board or dust, on floor or 
wall, 
The same is kept of God who taketh 
heed 
That not a letter of the meaning fall, 
Or ere it touch and teach His world's 

deep heart 
Outla'^ting, therefore, all your lordships. 
Sir! 
So keep your stone, beseech you, for 
your part, 
To cover up your grave-place and refer 
The proper titles ! / live by my art ! 
The thought I threw into this snow shall 
stir 
This gazing people when their gaze 
is done ; 
And the tradition of your act and mine, 
When all the snow is melted in the 
sun, 
.Shall gather up, for unborn men, a sign 
Of what is the true princedom 1 ay, 
and none 
Shall laugh that day, except the drunk 
with wine.' 



Amen, great Angelo I the day's at 
hand. 
If many laugh not on it, shall we weep ? 
Much more we must not, let us under- 
stand. 
Through rhymers sonneteering in their 
sleep. 
And archaists mumbling dry bones up 
the land. 
And sketchers lauding ruined towns 
a-heap, — 
Through all that drowsy hum of 
voices smooth. 
The hopeful oird mounts carolling from 
brake ; 
The hopeful child, with leaps to catch 
his growth, 
binp;s open-eyed for liberty's sweet 
sake ; 
And I, a singer also, from my youth. 
Prefer to sing with these who are awake. 
With birds, with babes, with men who 
will not fear 
The baptism of the holy mountain dew. 



(And many of such wakers now arc 
here. 
Complete in their anointed manhood, 
who 
Will greatly dare and greatlicr per- 
severe,) 
Than join those old thin voices with my 
new. 
And sigh for Italy with some safe 
sigh 
Cooped up in music 'twixt an oh and ah ! 
Nay, hand in hand with that young 
child, will I 
Go singing rather ' Bella liberia' 
Than, with those poets, croon the 
dead or cry 
' Se tu men bellafossi, Italia .'' 



' Less wretched if less fair.' Perhaps 
a truth 
Is so far plain in this— that Italy, 

Long trammelled with the purple of 
her youth 
Against her age's ripe activity. 

Sits still upon . her tombs, without 
death's ruth. 
But also without life's brave energy. 

• Now tell us what is Italy V men ask. . 
And others answer, ' Virgil, Cicero, 
Catullus, Caesar. What beside? to 
task 
The memory closer— 'Why, Poccaccio, 
Dante, Petrarca,'— and if s-till the flask 
Appears to yield its wine by drops too 
slow, — 
Angelo, Raffael, Pergolese,'— all 
Whose strong hearts beat through stone, 
or charged again 
The paints with fire of souls electrical. 
Or broke up heaven for music. What 
more then ? 
Why, then, no more. The chaplet's 
last beads fall 
In naming the last saintship within ken. 
And, after that, none prayeth in the 
*■ land. 
Alas, this Italy has too long swept 

Heroic ashes up for hour-glass sand ; 
Of her own past, impassioned nympho- 
lept ! 
Consenting to be nailed here by the 
hand 



a68 



CASA GUIDI WINDOIVS. 



To the very bay-tree under which she 
stepped 
A queen of old, and plucked a leafy 
branch. 
And, licensing the world too long in- 
deed 
To use her broad phylacteries to 
staunch 
And stop her bloody lips, she takes no 
heed 
How one clear word would draw an 
avalanche 
Of living sons around her, to succeed 
The vanished generations. Can she 
count 
The oil-eaters, with large, live, mobile 
mouths 
Agape for maccaroni, in the amount 
Of consecrated heroes of her south's 
Bright rosary ? The pitcher at the 
fount. 
The gift of gods, being broken, she 
much loathes 
To let the ground-leaves of the place 
confer 
A natural bowl. So henceforth she 
would seem 
No nation, but the poet's pensioner. 
With alms from every land of song and 
dream ; 
While aye her pipers sadly pipe of 
her. 
Until their proper breaths, in that ex- 
treme 
Of sighing, split the reed on which 
they played ! 
Of which, no more: but never say 'no 
more ' 
To Italy's life ! Her memories lui- 
dismayed 
Still argue ' evermore ' — her graves im- 
plore 
Her future to be strong and not afraid ; 
Her very statues send their looks before! 



We do not serve the dead — the past 
is past ! 
God lives, and lifts his glorious morn- 
ings up 
Before the eyes of men, awake at last, 
Who put away the meats they used to 
sup. 



And down upon the dust of earth out- 
cast 
The dregs remaining of the ancient cup. 
Then turn to wakeful prayer and 
worthy act. 
The dead, upon their awful 'vantage 
ground. 
The sun not in their faces, — shall ab- 
stract 
No more our strength : we will not be 
discrowned 
As guardians of their crowns ; nor 
deign transact 
A barter of the present, for a sound 
Of good, so counted in the foregone 
days. 
O Dead, ye shall no longer clnig to us 

With rigid hands of desiccating praise. 
And drag us backward by the garment 
thus. 
To stand and laud you in long- 
drawn virelays ! 
We will not henceforth be oblivious 
Of our own lives, because ye lived 
before. 
Nor of our acts, because ye acted well.' 
We thank you that ye first unlatched 
the door — 
But will not make it inaccessible 

By thankings on the threshold any 
more. 
We hurry onward to extinguish hell 
With our fresh souls, our younger 
hope, and God's 
Maturity of purpose. Soon shall we 

Die also ! and, that then our periods 
Of life may round themselves to mem- 
ory. 
As smoothly as on our graves the 
burial-sods. 
We now must look to it to excel as ye. 

And bear our age as far, imlimited 
By the last mind-mark I so, to be in- 
voked 
By future generations, as their Dead. 

Tin. 
'Tis true that when the dust of de;ith 
has choked 
A great man's voice, the common 
words he said 
Turn oracles, — the common thoughts he 
yoked 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



VfK, 



Like horses, draw like griffins ! — this 
is true 
And acceptable. I, too, should desire, 
When men make record with the 
flowers they strew, 
Savonarola's soul went out in fire 

Upon our Grand-duke's piazza, and 
burned through 
A. moment first, or ere he did expire, 
The veil betwixt the right and wrong, 
and showed 
How near God sate and judged the 
judges there,' — * 
Upon the self-same pavement over- 
strewed. 
To cast my violets with as reverent 
care. 
And prove that all the winters which 
have snowed 
Cannot snow out the scent from stones 
and air. 
Of a sincere man's virtues. This was 
he, 
Savonarola, who, while Peter sank 
With his whole boat-load, called cour- 
ageously 

• Wake Christ, wake Christ !' — who, hav- 

ing tried the tank 

Of old church-waters used for bap- 
tistry 
Ere Luther came to spill them, swore 
they stank ! 

Who also by a princely death-bed 
cried 

• Loose Florence, or God will not loose 

thy soul !' 
Then fell back the Magnificent and 
died 
Beneath the star-look, shooting from the 
cowl. 
Which turned to wormwood bitter- 
ness the wide 
Deep sea of his ambitions. It were foul 

To grudge Savonarola and the rest 
Their violets ! rather pay them quick 
and fresh ! 
The emphasis of death makes mani- 
fest 



• SHvonaioU was biiiiit in limit yrdom for his 
teBtimoiiy aicainst Papal corruptions as early 
as xMarch, 149S : ami, as lalu as our own day, it 
is a custom in Ploience to strew violets on 
the pavement where lie suifei-eJ, in grateful 
recoiinitiou ul the tiQuivcmary. 



The eloquence of action in our flesh ; 
And men who, living, were but dimly 
guessed. 
When once free from life's entangled 
mesh. 
Show their full length in graves, or 
oft indeed 
Exaggerate their stature, in the flat, 

I'o noble admirations which excctd 
Most nobly, yet will calculate in that 
But accurately. We, who are the 
seed 
Of buried creatures, if we turned and 
spat 
Upon our antecedents, we were vile. 
Bring violets rather. If these had not 
walked 
Their furlong, could we hope to walk 
our mile ? 
Therefore bring violets ! Yet if we, 
self-baulked, * 

Stand still a-strewing violets all the 
while. 
These moved in vain, of whom we have 
vainly talked. 
So rise up henceforth with a cheerful 
smile. 
And having strewn the violets, reap the 
corn. 
And, having reaped and garnered, 
bring the plough 
And draw new furrows 'neath the 
healthy morn. 
And plant the great Hereafter in this 
Now. 



Of old 'twas so. How step by step wa» 
worn 
As each man gained on each, se- 
curely ! — how 
Each by his own strength sought his 
own ideal. 
The ultimate Perfection leaning bright 
From out the sun and stars, to bless the 
leal 
And earnest search of all for Fair and 
Right, 
Through doubtful forms, by earth 
accounted real ! 
Because old Jubal blew into delight 
The souls of men, with clear-piped mel- 
odies. 



ijo 



CASA GUIDI IVINDOWS. 



If youthful Asaph were content at 
most 
To draw from Jubal's grave, with listen- 
ing eyes, 
Traditionary music's floating ghost 
Into the grass-grown silence? were it 
wise ? 
And was't not wiser, Jubal's breath 
being lost. 
That Miriam clashed her cymbals to 
surprise 
The sun between her white arms flung 
apart 
With new, glad, golden sounds ? that 
David's strings 
O'erflowed his hand with music from 
his heart ? 
So harmony grows full from many 
springs, 
AIM happy accident turns holy art. 



You enter, in your Florence wanderings, 
The church of St. Maria Novella. 
Pass 
The left stair, where at plague-time 
Macchiavel"' 
Saw one with set fair face as in a 
glass. 
Dressed out against the fear of death and 
heil. 
Rustling her silks in pauses of the 
mass. 
To keep the thought off" how her hus- 
band fell, 
When she left home, stark dead 
across her feet — 
The stair leads up to what the Orgagnas 
save 
Of Dante's daemons ; you, in passing 
it. 
Ascend the right stair from the farther 
nave. 
To muse in a small chapel scarcely 
lit 
By Cimabue's Virgin. Bright and 
brave. 
That picture was accounted, mark, of 
old! 
A king stood bare before its sovran 
grace ; t 

* See his deacriptioii of tlie pla^'uu in Flor» 
euce. 

t Charles of Anjou, -whom, lu his pasaat'o 



A reverent people shouted to behold 
The picture, not the king ; and even the 
place 
Containing such a miracle, grew bold, 
Named the Glad Borgo from that beau- 
teous face. 
Which thrilled the artist, after work, 
to think 
His own ideal Mary-smile should .stand 
So very near liim ! — he, within the 
brink 
Of all that glory, let in by his hand 
With too divine a rashness I Yet 
none shrink 
Who come to gaze here now — albeit 
'twas planned 
Sublimely in the thought's simplicity. 
The Lady, throned in empyreal state, 
Minds only the young babe upon her 
knee ; 
While sidelong angels bear the royal 
weight, 
Prostrated meekly, smiling tenderly 
Oblivion of their wings! the Child 
thereat 
Stretches its hand like God. If any 
should. 
Because of some stiff" draperies and 
loose joints. 
Gaze scorn down from the heights of 
Raffaelhood, 
On Cimabue's picture, — Heaven anoints 
The head of no such critic, and his 
blood 
The poet's curse strikes full on, and ap- 
points 
To ague and cold spasms for ever- 
more. 
A noble picture ! worthy of the shout 
Wherewith along the streets the peo- 
ple bore 
Its cherub faces, which the sun threw 
out 
Until they stooped and entered the 
church door ! — 
Yet rightly was young Giotto talked 
about. 



through Florence, Cimabue allowed to see thi« 
picture wliile yet in his ' Bottega.' The popu- 
lace followed the royal visitor, and in tlie uni- 
versal delight and admiration, the quarter of 
tlie city in which the artist lived was called 
" Borgo AUegri." The picture was carried in 
a triumph to the cljurch and deposited there. 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS: 



271 



Whom Cimabue found among the 
sheep,* 
And knew, as gods know gods, and car- 
ried home 
To paint the things he had painted, 
with a deep 
And fuller insight, and so overcome 
His chapel-lady with a heavenlier 
sweep 
Of light. For thus v,'c mount into the 
sum 
Of great things known or acted. I 
hold, too. 
That Cimabue smiled upon the lad, 
At the first stroke which passed what 
he could do, — 
Or else his Virgin's smile had never had 
Such sweetness in't. All great men 
who foreknew 
Their heirs in art, for art's sake have 
been glad. 
And bent their old white heads as if 
uncrowned. 
Fanatics of their pure ideals still 

Far more than of their triumphs, 
which were found 
With some less vehement struggle of 
the will. 
If old Margheritone trembled, .swoon- 
ed. 
And died despairing at the open sill 
Of other men's achievements, (who 
achieved. 
By loving art beyond the master!) he 

Was old Margheritone and conceived 
Never, at first youth and most ecstasy, 
A Virgin like that dream of one, 
which heaved 
The death-sigh from his heart. If wist- 
fully 
Margheritone sickened at the smell 
Of Cimabue's laurel, let him go ! — 
For Cimabue stood up very well 
In spite of Giotto's — and Angelico, 
The artist-saint, kept smiling m his 
cell 
The smile with which he welcomed the 
sweet slow 

• How Cimabue found Giotto, the shepherd- 
boy, Bketching a ram of him flock upon a stone, 
Is a pretty story told by Vasari, — who also re- 
lates how the. elder artist Margheritone died 
'• infastiUIto " of the succeaseii of the new 
•chool. 



Inbreak of angels, (whitening through 
the dim 
That he might paint them !) while the 
sudden sense 
Of Raffael's future was revealed to 
him 
Ey force of his own fair works' compe- 
tence. 
The same blue waters where the dol- 
phins swim 
Suggest the Tritons. Through the blue 
Immense 
Strike out all swimmers I cling not in 
the way 
Of one another, so to sink ; but learn 
The strong man's impulse, catch the 
fresh'ning spray 
He throws up in his motions, and discern 
By his clear, westering eye, the time 
of day. 
Thou, God, hast set us worthy gifts to 
earn. 
Besides thy heaven and Thee I and 
when I say 
There's room here for the weakest man 
alive 
To live and die, — there's room too, I 
repeat, 
For all the strongest to live well and 
strive. 
Their own waj^ by their individual 
heat, — 
Like a new bee-swarni leaving the old 
hive. 
Despite the wax which tempts so vio- 
let-sweet. 
Then let the living live, the dead retain 
Their grave-cold flowers I — though 
honour's best supplied. 
By bringing actions, to prove theirs not 
vain. 



Cold graves, we say ? it shall be testi- 
fied 
That living men who burn in heart and 
brain. 

Without the dead, were colder. If 
we tried 
To sink the past beneath our feet, bs 
sure 

The future would not stand. Precipi- 
tate 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



This oKl roof from the shrine — and, in- 
secure, 
The nestling swallows fly off, mate 
from mate. 
How scant the gardens, if the graves 
were fewer ! 
The tall green poplars grew no longer 
straight. 
Whose tops not looked to Troy. Would 
any fight 
For Athens, and not swear by Mara- 
thon ? 
Who dared build temples, without tombs 
in sight? 
Or live, without some dead man's 
benison ? 
Or seek truth, hope for good, and strive 
for right. 
If, looking up, he saw not in the sun 
Some angel of the martyrs all day long 
Standing and waiting? your last 
rhythm will need 
Your earliest key-note. Could I sing 
this song. 
If my dead masters had not taken 
heed 
To help the heavens and earth to make 
me strong. 
As the wind ever will find out some 
reed. 
And touch it to such issues as belong 
To such a frail thing I None may 
grudge the dead 
Libations from full cups. Unless we 
choose 
To look back to the hills behind us 
spread. 
The plains before us sadden and con- 
fuse ; 
If orphaned, we are disinherited. 

XII. 

1 would but turn these lachrymals to iise, 
And pour fresh oil in from the olive 
grove. 
To furnish them as new lamps. Shall I 
say 
What made my heart beat with exult- 
ing love, 
A few weeks back ? 

XIII. 
.... The day was such a day 
As Florence owes the sun. The sky 
above. 



Its weight upon the mountains seemed 
to lay. 
And palpitate in glory, like a dove 
Who has flown too fast, full-hearted !— 
take away 
The image 1 for the heart of man beat 
higher 
That day in Florence, flooding all her 

streets 
And piazzas with a tumult and desire. 
The people, with accumulated heats. 
And faces turned one way, as if one 
fire 
Both drew and flushed them, left their 
ancient beats 
And went up toward the palace-Pitti 
wall. 
To thank their Grand-duke, who, not 
quite of course 
Had graciously permitted, at their call. 
The citizens to use their civic force 
To guard their civic homes. So one 
and all. 
The Tuscan cities streamed up to the 
source 
Of this new good at Florence ; taking 
it 
As good so far, presageful of more 
good, — 
The first torch of Italian freedom, lit 
To toss in the next tiger's face who 
should 
Approach too near them in a greedy 
fit,— 
The first pulse of an even flow of blood. 

To prove the level of Italian veins 
Toward rights perceived and granted. 
How we gazed 
From Casa Guidi windows, while, in 
trains 
Of orderly procession — banners raised. 
And intermittent bursts of martial 
strains 
Which died upon the shouts, as if 
amazed 
By gladness beyond music — they 
passed on ! 
The magistracy, with insignia, passed ; 

And all the people shouted in the sun. 
And all the thousand windows which 
had cast 
A ripple of silks, in blue and scarlet. 
down. 
As if the houses overflowed at last. 



C^SA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



ajS 



Seemed growing larger with fair 
heads and eyes. 
The lawyers passed ; and still arose the 
shout. 
And hands broke from the windows to 
surprise 
Those grave calm brows with bay -leaves 
thrown out. 
The priesthood passed : the friars, 
with worldly-wise 
Keen sidelong glances from their beards 
about 
The street to see who shouted ! many 
a monk 
Who takes a long rope in the waist, was 
there ! 
Whereat the popular exultation drunk 
With indrawn ' vivas,' the whole sunny 
air, 
While through the murmuring win- 
dows rose and sunk 
A cloud of kerchiefed hands ! ' The 
church makes fair 
Her welcome in the new Pope's name.' 
Ensued 
The blac'i. sign of the ' martyrs ! ' name 
no name. 
But count the graves in silence. Next 
were viewed 
The artists ; next the trades ; and after 
came 
The people, — flag and sign, and rights 
as good, — 
And very loud the shout was for that 
same 
Motto, ' II popolo,' II Popolo, — 
The word means dukedom, empire, 
majesty. 
And kings in such an hour might read 
it so. 
And next, with banners, each in his 
degree. 
Deputed representatives a-row 
Of every separate state of Tuscany ; 

Siena's she-wolf, bristling on the fold 
Of the first flag preceded Pisa's hare ; 
And Massa's lion floated calm in 
gold, 
Plenza's following with his silver stare ; 
Arezzo's steed pranced clear from 
bridle-hold, — 
And well might shout our Florence, 
greeting there 



These, and more brethren I Last, 
the world had sent 
The various children of her teeming 
flanks — 
Greeks, English, French — as if to a 
parliament 
Of lovers of her Italy in ranks, 

Each bearing its land's symbols rever- 
ent; 
At which the stones seemed breaking 
into thanks 
And rattling up the sky, such sounds 
in proof 
Arose ! the very hoase-walis seemed to 
bend. 
The very windows, up from door to 
roof. 
Flashed out a rapture of bright heads, to 
mend 
With passionate looks, the gesture's 
whirling off 
A hurricane of leaves ! Three hours 
did end 
While all these passed ; and ever in 
the crowd. 
Rude men, unconscious of the tears that 
kept 
Their beards moist, shouted ; some 
few laughed aloud. 
And none asked any why they laughed 
and wept : 
Friends kissed each other's cheeks, 
and foes long vowed 
Did it more warmly ; two - months' 
babies leapt 
Right upward in their mothers' arms, 
whose black 
Wide, glittering eyes looked elsewhere ; 
lovers pressed 
Each before either, neither glancing 
back ; 
And peasant maidens, smoothly 'tired 
and tressed, 
Forgot to finger on their throats the 
slack 
Great pearl-strings ; while old blind men 
^ would not rest. 

But pattered with their staves and slid 
their shoes 
Along the stones, and smiled as if they 
saw. 
O Heaven ! I think that day had 
noble use 



074 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



Among God's days. So near stood. 
Right and Law, 
Both mutually forborne ! Law would 
not bruise, 
Nor Right deny ; and each in reverent 
awe 
Honoured the other. What if, ne'er- 
theless. 
That good day's sun delivered to the 
vines 
No charta, and the liberal Duke's 
excess 
Did scarce exceed a Guelf's or Ghibel- 
line's 
In any special actual righteousness 
Of what that day he granted ;* still the 
signs 
Are good, and full of promise, we 
must say, 
"When multitudes approach their kings 
with prayers 
And kings concede their people's 
right to pray. 
Both m one sunshine ! Griefs are not 
despairs. 
So uttered ; nor can royal claims dis- 
may 
When men from humble homes and 
ducal chairs. 
Hate wrong together. It was well to 
view 
Those banners ruffled in a ruler's face. 
Inscribed, ' Live freedom, union, and 
all true 
Brave patriots who are aided by God's 
gra:e !' 
Nor was it ill, when Leopoldo drew 
His little children to the window-place 

He stood in at the Pitti, to suggest 
They too should govern as the people 
willed. 
What a cry rose then ! some, who 
saw the best. 
Declared his eyes filled up and over- 
filled 
With good warm human tears which 
unrepressed 
Ran down. I like his face : the fore- 
head's build 

* Siucu wiieii t!ie constitutional concessions 
have biijn complete in Tuscany, as all the 
wo 11 knoivs. The event breaks in upon the 
me litation, and is too fast lor prophecy in 
tuese btrauge times. — £. B. B. 



Has no capacious genius, yet perhaps 
Sufficient comprehension, — mild and sad. 
And careful nobly, — not with care 
that -wraps 
Self-loving hearts, to stifle and make 
mad. 
But careful with the care that shuns a 
lapse 
Of faith and duty, — studious not to add 

A burden in the gathering of a gain. 
And so, God save the Duke, I say with 
those 
Who that day shouted it, and while 
dukes reign. 
May all wear in the visible overflows 

Of spirit, such a look of careful pain I 
For God must love it better than repose. 



And all the people who went up to let 
Their hearts out to that Duke, as has 
been told — 
Where guess ye that the living people 
rtet. 
Kept tryst, formed ranks, chose lead- 
ers, first unrolled 
Their banners ? 

In the Loggia ? where is set 
Cellini's godlike Perseus, bronze — or 
gold— 
(How name the metal, when the statue 
flings 
Its soul so in your eyes ?) with brow 
and sword 
Superbly calm, as all opposing things 
Slain with the Gorgon, were no more 
abhorred 
Since ended ? 

No ! the people sought no wings 
From Perseus in the Loggia, nor im- 
plored 
An inspiration in the place beside, 
From that dim bust of Brutus, jagged 
and grand. 
Where Buonarotti passionately tried 
From out the close-clenched marble 
to demand 
The head of Rome's sublimest homi- 
cide. 
Then dropt the quivering mallet from 
his hand. 
Despairing he could find no model stuff 



CAS A GUIDI ]VINDOVVS. 



275 



Of Brutu-;, in all Florence, where he 
found 
The gods and gladiators thick enough. 
Not there ? the people chose still 
holier ground ! 
The people, who are simple, blind, and 
rough, 
Know their own angels, after looking 
round. 
What chose they then ? where met 
they? 



On the stone 
Call'd Dante's, — a plain flat stone, 
scarce discerned 
From others in the pavement, — where- 
upon 
He used to bring hii quiet chair out, 
turned 
To Brunelleschi's church and pour alone 
The lava of his spirit when it 
burned — 
It is not cold to-day. O passionate 
Poor Dante, who, a banished Floren- 
tine, 
Didst sit austere at banquets of the great. 
And muse upon this far-off stone of 
thine, 
And think how oft some passer losed to 
wait 
A moment, in the golden day's de- 
cline, 
With ' good night, dearest Dante ! ' — ■ 
well, good-night ! 
I muse now, Dante, and think, verily, 
Though chapellei in thebyeway, outof 
sight, 
Ravenna's bones would thrill with 
ecstasy, 
Could'st know thy favorite stone's 
electeJ right 
As tryst-place for .thy Tuscans to fore- 
see 
Their earliest chartas from. Good night, 
good morn. 
Henceforward, Dante ! now my soul 
is sure 
That thine is better comforted of scorn. 
And looks down earthward in com- 
pleter cure, 
Than when, in Santa Croce church for- 
lorn 



Of any corpse, the architect and 
hewer 
Did pile the empty marbles as thy 
tomb ! * 
For now thou art no longer exiled, 
now 
Best honored ! — we salute thee who art 
come 
Back to the old stone with a softer 
brow 
Than Giotto drew upon the wall, for 
some 
Good lovers of our age to track and 
plough 
Their way to, through Time's ordures 
stratified.t 
And startle broad awake into the 
dull 
Bargello chamber. Now, thou'rt milder 
eyed. 
Now, Beatri.v may leap up glad to 
cull 
Thy first smile, even in heaven and at 
her side. 
Like that which, nine years old, look- 
ed beautiful 
At May-game. What do I say? I 
only meant 
That tender Dante loved his Florence 
well. 
While Florence, now, to love him is 
content ; 
And, mark ye, that the piercingest 
sweet smell 
Of love's dear incense by the livingsent 

To find the dead, is not accessible 
To lazy livers ! no narcotic, — not 

Swung in a censer to a sleepy tune, — 

But trod out in the morning air, by hot 

Quick spirits, who tread firm to ends 

foreshown , 

And use the name of greatness unforgot, 

To meditate what greatness may be 

done. 



• The Plorentinea, to whom the Ravi'nue.sf<» 
denied the body of Dante which was asked of 
them in a " late rsmorse of love." have Kivfii 
a ceriotaph to their divine poet in this church. 
Something less than a (,-rave ! 

t In alliinion to Mr. Kirl<up's well-l<nown 
dUcovery of Qiotto'a fresco-portrait of Dante, 



276 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



For Dante sits in heaven, and ye stand 
here, 
And more remains for doing, all must 
feel. 
Than trysting on his stone from year to 
year 
To shift processions, civic toe to heel. 
The town's thanks to the Pitti. Are ye 
freer 
For what was felt that day? A cha- 
riot wheel 
May spin fast, yet the chariot never 
roll. 
But if that day suggested somethmg 
good, 
And bettered, with one purpose, soul by 
soul, — 
Better means freer. A land's brother- 
hood 
Is most puissant 1 Men, upon the whole. 
Are what they can be, — nations what 
they would. 



Will, therefore, to be strong, thou Italy ! 
Will to be noble ! Austrian Metter- 
nich 
Can fi.x no yoke unless the neck agree ; 
And thine is like the lion's when the 
thick 
Dews shudder from it, and no man 
would be 
The stroker of his mane, much less 
would prick 
His nostril with a reed. When nations 
roar 
Like lion';, who shall tame them, and 
defraud 
Of the due pasture by the river-shore ? 
Roar, therefore ! shake your dew-laps 
dry abroad — 
The amphitheatre with open door 

Leads back upon the benchers who 
applaud 
The last spear-thruster ! 



XVIII. 

Yet the Heavens forbid 
That we should call on pasJion to 
confront 
The brutal with the brutal, and, amid 



This ripening world, suggest a lion- 
hunt 
And lion-vengeance for the wrongs men 
did 
And do now, though the spears are 
getting blunt. 
We only call, because the sight and 
proof 
Of lion-strength hurts nothing ; and 
to show 
A lion -heart, and measure paw with 
hoof. 
Helps something, even, and will in- 
struct a foe 
Well as the onslaught, how to .stand 
aloof ! 
Or else the world gets past the mere 
brute blow 
Given or taken. Children use the fist 

Until they are of age to use the bram: 
And so we needed Caesars to assist 
Man's justice, and Napoleons to ex- 
plain 
God's counsel, when a point was nearly 
missed. 
Until our generations should attain 
Christ's stature nearer. Not that we, 
alas ! 
Attain already ; but a single in< h 
Will raise to look down on the x,\ or Js- 
man's pass. 
As knighdy Roland on the coward's 
flinch; 
And, after chloroform and ether-gas. 
We find out slowly what the bee and 
finch 
Have ready found, through Nature's 
lamp in each. 
How to our races we may justify 
Our individual claims, and, as we reach 
Our own grapes, bend the top vines to 
supply 
The children's uses: how to fill a 
breach 
With olive branches ; how to quench 
a lie 
With truth, and smite a foe upon the 
cheek 
With Christ's most conquering kiss ! 
why, these are things 
Worth a great nation's finding, to prove 
weak 
The ' glorious arms ' of military 
kings J 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



«77 



And so with wide embrace, my Eng- 
land, seek 
To stifle the bad heat and flickerings 
Of this world's false and nearly ex- 
pended fire ! 
Draw palpitating arrows to the wood. 
And twang abroad thy high hopes, and 

thy higher 
Resolves, from that most virtuous alti- 
tude. 
Till nations shall imconsciously aspire 
By looking up to thee, and learn that 
good 
And glory are not different. Announce 
law 
By freedom ; exalt chivalry by peace ; 
Ipstruct how clear calm eyes can over- 
awe. 
And how pure hands, stretched simply 
to release 
A bond-slave, will not need a sword to 
draw 
To be held dreadful. O my Eng- 
land, crease 
Thy purple with no alien agonies ! 
No struggles toward encroachment, 
no vile war ! 
Disband thy captains, change thy vic- 
tories. 
Be henceforth prosperous as the angels 
are — 
Helping, not humbling. 

XIX. 

Drums and battle cries 
Go out in music of the morning star — 
And soon we shall have thinkers in the 
place 
Of fighters ; each found able as a 
man 
To strike electric influence through a 
race. 
Unstayed by city-wall and barbican. 
The poet shall look grander in the face 
Than even of old, when he of Greece 
began 
To sing that 'Achillean wrath which 
slew 
So many heroes,' — seeing he shall 
treat 
The deeds of souls heroic toward the 
true — 
The oracles of life — previsions sweet 



And awful, like divine swans gliding 
through 
White arms of Ledas, which will 
leave the heat 
Of their escaping godship to endue 
The human medium with a heavenly 
flush. 
Meanwhile, in this same Italy we want 
Not popular passion, to arise and 
crush. 
But popular conscience, which may cov- 
enant 
For what it knows. Concede without 
a blush — 
To grant the ' civic guard ' is not to 
grant 
The civic spirit, living and awake. 
Those lappets on your shoulders, citi- 
zens. 
Your eyes strain after sideways till 
they ache. 
While still, in admirations and amens. 
The crowd comes up on festa-days, t» 
take 
The great sight in — are not intelli 
gence. 
Not courage even — alas, if not tht 
sign 
Of something very noble, they ar« 
nought ; 
For every day ye dress your salloW 
kine 
With fringes down their cheeks, though 
imbesought 
They loll their heavy heads and drag 
the wine, 
And bear the wooden yoke as they 
were taught 
The first day. What ye want is light — 
indeed 
Not sunlight — (ye may well look up 
surprised 
To those unfathomable heavens that 
feed 
Your purple hills !) — but God's light 
^ organised 

In some high soul, crowned capable 
to lead 
The conscious people, — conscious and 
advised, — 
For if we lift a people like mere clay. 
It falls the same. We want thee, O 
unfound 



273 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



And sovran teacher ! — if thy beard be 
grey 
Or black, we bid thee rise up from the 
ground 
And speak the word God giveth thee 
to say, 
Inspiring into all this people round. 
Instead of passion, thought, which 
pioneers 
All generous passion, purifies from sin. 
And strikes the hour for. Rise up 
teacher ! here's 
A crowd to make a nation ! — best begin 
By making each a man, till all be peers 
Of earth's true patriots and pure mar- 
tyrs in 
Knowing and daring. Best unbar the 
doors 
Which Peter's heirs keep locked so 
overdose 
They only let the mice across the 
floors. 
While every churchman dangles as he 
goes 
The great key at his girdle, and ab- 
hors 
In Christ's name, meekly. Open wide 
the house — 
Concede the entrance with Christ's 
liberal mind. 
And set the tables with His wine and 
bread. 
What ! commune in ' both kinds ?' In 
every kind — 
Wine, wafer, love, hope, truth, un- 
limited. 
Nothing kept back. For when a man 
is blind 
To starlight, will he see the rose is red ? 
A bondsman shivering at a Jesuit's 
foot— 
' Vai ! mea culpa, !' is not like to stand 

A freedman at a despot's, and dispute 
His titles by tb.e balance in his hand, 
Weigliing them 'suojure.' Tend the 
root. 
If careful of the branches; and expand 
The inner souls of men before you 
strive 
For civic heroes. 

XX. 

But the teacher, where ? 
From all these crowded faces, all 
alive. 



Eyes, of their own hds flashing them- 
selves bare. 
And brows that with a mobile life 
contrive 
A deeper shadow — may we no wise dare 
To point a finger out, and touch a man, 
And cry ' this is the leader.' What, all 
these ! — 
Broad heads, black eyes, — yet not a 
soul that ran 
From God down with a message ? All, 
to please 
The donna waving measures with her 
fan. 
And not the judgment-angel on his 
knees — 
The trumpet just an inch off from 
his lips — 
Who when he breathes next, will put 
out the sun ? 
Yet mankind's self were foundered in 
eclipse. 
If lacking doers, with great works to be 
done. 
And lo, the startled earth already dips 
Back into light— a better day's begun-— 
And soon this leader, teacher, will 
stand plain. 
And build the golden pipes and synthe- 
size 
This people-organ for a holier strain. 
We hold this hope, and still in all thesa 
eyes. 
Go sounding for the deep look whick 
shall drain 
Suffused thought into channelled enter- 
prise I 
Where is the teacher? What now 
may he do. 
Who shall do greatly ? Doth he gird 
his waist 
With a monk's rope, like Luther ? or 
pursue 
The goat, like Tell? or dry his nets in 
haste. 
Like Masaniello when the sky was 
blue ? 
Keep house like other peasants, with in- 
laced 
Bare, brawny arms about a favourite 
ch.ld. 
And meditative looks beyond the door. 
(But not to mark the kidling's teeth 
have filed 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



»7'J 



The green shoots of his vine which last 
year bore 
Full twenty bunches ;) or, on triple- 
piled 
Throne-velvets sits at ease, to bless the 
poor, 
Like other pontiffs, in the Poorest's 
name, 
The old tiara keeps itself aslope 

Upon his steady brows, which, all the 
same, 
Eend mildly to permit the people's hope ? 



Whatever hand shall grasp this ori- 
flamme. 
Whatever man (last peasant or first Pope 
Seeking to free his country !) shall 
appear, 
Teach, lead, strike fife into the masses, 
fill 
These empty bladders with fine air, 
insphere 
These wills into a unity of will, 

And mak'e of Italy a nation — dear 
And blessed be that man ! the Heavens 
shall kill 
No leaf the earth shall grow for him ; 
and Death 
Shall cast him back upon the lap of Life, 
To live more surely, in a clarion- 
breath 
Of hero-music ! Brutus, with the knife, 
Rienzi, with the fasces, throb beneath 
Rome's stones ; and more, who threw 
away joy's fife 
Like Pallas, that the beauty of their 
souls 
Might ever shine untroubled and entire ! 
But if it can be true that he who rolls 
The Church's thunders will reserve her 
fire 
For only light ; from eucharistic bowls 
Will pour new life for nations that ex- 
pire. 
And rend the scarlet of his Papal vest 
To gird the weak loins of his country- 
men — 
I hold that he surpasses all the rest 
Of Romans, heroes, patriots, — and that 
when 
He sat down on the throne, he dispos- 
sessed 



The first graves of some glory. See 
again. 
This country-saving is a glorious 
thing ! 
And if a common man achieved it? 
Well ! 
Say, a rich man did ? Excellent ! A 
king ? 
That grows sublime ! A priest ? Ln- 
probable ! 
A Pope ? Ah, there we stop and can- 
not bring 
Our faith up to the leap, with history's 
bell 
So heavy round the neck of it — albeit 
We fain would grant the possibility 
For thy sake, Pio Nono ! 



XXII. 

Stretch thy feet 
In that case — I v/ill kiss them reverently 

As any pilgrim to the Papal seat ! 
And, such proved possible, thy throne to 
me 
Shall seem as holy a place as Pelli- 
co's 
Venetian dungeon ; or as Spielberg's 
grate, 
At which the Lombard woman hung 
the rose 
Of her sweet soul, by its own dewy 
weight, 
To feel the dungeon round her sun- 
shine close 
And pining so, died early, yet too late 
For what she suffered ! Yea, I will 
not choose 
Betwixt thy throne, Pope Pius, and the 
spot 
Marked red for ever spite of rains and 
dews 
Where two fell riddled by the Austrian's 
shot — 
The brothers Bandiera, who accuse. 
With one same mother-voice and face, 
^ (that what. 
They speak may be invincible,) the 
sms 
Of earth's tormentors before God, the 
just. 
Until the unconscious thunder-bolt 
begins to loosen in His grasp. 



aCo 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



And yet we mixst 
Beware, and mark the natural kiths 
and kins 
Of circumstance and office, and distrust 
A rich man reasoning in a poor man's 
hut ; 
A poet who neglects pure truth to 
prove 
Statistic fact ; a child who leaves a 
rut 
For a smoother road ; the priest who 
vows his glove 
Exhales no grace ; the prince who 
walks a-foot ; 
The woman who has sworn she will not 
love ; 
And this Ninth Pius in Seventh Greg- 
ory's c^air, 
With Andrea Doria's forehead ! 



Count what goes 
To make up a pope before he wear 
That triple crown. We pass the world- 
wide tkroes 
Which went to make the popedom, — 
the despair 
Of free men, good men, wise men ; the 

dread shows 
Of women's faces, by the fagot's flash. 
Tossed out, to the minutest stir and throb 
O' the white lips, the least tremble of a 
lash. 
To glut the red stare of a licensed mob ! 
The short mad cries down oubliettes, 
and plash 
So horribly far off! priests, trained to 
rob. 
And kings that, like encouraged night- 
mares, sate 
On nations' hearts most heavily dis- 
tressed 
With monstrous sights and apoph- 
thegms of fact ! — 
We pass these things, — because ' the 
times' are prest 
With necessary charges of the weight 
Of all this sin, and ' Calvin, for the rest. 
Made bold to burn Servetus — Ah, 
men err ! ' 
And so do churches? which is all wa 
mean 



To bring to proof in any register 
Of theological fat kine and lean — 
So drive them back into the pens I 
refer 
Old sins (with pourpoint, ' quotha ' and 
' 1 ween,') 
Entirely to the old times, the old I 
times ; 
Nor ever ask why this preponderant. 
Infallible, pure Church could set her 
chimes 
Most loudly then, just then, — most jubi- 
lant. 
Precisely then — when mankind stood 
in crimes 
Full heart-deep, and Heaven's judg- 
ments were not scant. 
Inquire still less, what signifies a i 
church 
Of perfect inspiration and pure laws. 
Who burns the first man with a brim- 
stone-torch. 



And grinds the second, bone by bone, 
because 
The times, forsooth, are used to rack ; 
and scorch ! 
What is a holy Church, unless she awes s 
The times down from theirsins? Did i 
Christ select \ 

Such amiable times, to come and teach 
Love to, and mercy ? Ihe whole 
world were wrecked. 
If every mere great man, who lives to ^ 
reach 
A little leaf of popular respect. 
Attained not simply by some special 
breach 
In the age's customs, by some prece- 
dence 
In thought and act, which, having ; 
proved him higher 
Than those he lived with, proved his 
competence 
In helping them to wonder and aspire. 

XXV. 

My words are guiltless of the bigot's 
sense 1 
My soul has fire to mingle with the fire 
Of all these souls, within or out of i 
doors 
Of Rome's Church or another. I be- 
lieve 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



2E1 



In one priest, and one temple, with its 
floors 
Of shining jasper gloom'd at morn and 
eve 
By countless knees of earnest audit- 
ors ; 
And crystal walls, too lucid to perceive. 
That none may take the measure of 
the place 
And say. 'so far the porphyry; then, 
the flint— 
To this mark, mercy goes, and there, 
ends grjce,' 
Though still the permeable crystals hint 
At some white starry distance, bathed 
in space ! 
I feel how nature's ice-crusts keep the 
dint 
Of undersprings of silent Deity ; 
I hold the articulated gospels, which 
Show Christ among us, crucified on 
tree ; 
I love all who love truth, if poor or rich 
In what they have won of truth pos- 
sessively ! 
No altars and no hands defiled with 
pitch 
Shall scare me off, but I will pray and 
eat 
With all these — taking leave to choose 
my ewers 
And say at last, ' Your visible 
Churches cheat 
Their inward types; and if a Church 
assures 
Of standing without failure and de- 
feat. 
The same both fails and lies 1' 



XXVI. 

To leave which lures 
Of wider subject through past years, 
—behold. 
We come back from the Popedom to 
the Pope, 
To ponder what he must be, ere we 
are bold 
For what he may be, with our heavy 
hope 
To trust upon his soul. So, fold by 
fold. 
Explore this mummy in the priestly 
cope 



Transmitted through the darks of 
time, to catch 
The man within the wrappage, and dis- 
cern 
How he, an honest man, upon the 
watch 
Full fifty years, for what a man may 
learn. 
Contrived to get just there ; with 
what a snatch 
Of old world oboli he had to earn 
The passage through ; with what a 
drowsy sop 
To drench the busy barkings of liis 
brain ; 
What ghosts of pale tradition, wreath- 
ed with hop 
'Gainst wakeful thought, he had to 
entertain 
For heavenly visions ; and consent to 
stop 
The clock at noon, and let the hour re- 
main 
(Without vain windings up) inviolate, 
Against all chimings from the belfry. 
Lo! 
From every given pope you must 
abate. 
Albeit you love him, some things — good, 
you know — 
Which every given heretic you hate 
Assumes for his, as being plainly so. 
A pope must hold by popes a little, — 
yes. 
By councils,' — from Nicaea up to Trent, 

By hierocratic empire, more or less 
Irresponsible to men, — he must resent 
Each man's particular conscience, and 
repress 
Inquiry, meditation, argument. 

As tyrants faction. Also, he must not 
Love truth too dangerously, but pre- 
fer 
'The interests of the Church,' be- 
cause a blot 
Is better than a rent in miniver, — 
^ Submit to see the people swallow hot 
Husk - porridge which his chartered 
churchmen stir. 
Quoting the only true God's epigraph, 
' Feed my lambs, Peter ! ' — must con- 
sent to sit 
Attesting with his pastoral ring and 
staff. 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



To such a picture of our Lady, hit 
Off well by artist angels, though not 
half 
As fair a> Giotto would have painted it ; 
To such a vial, where a dead man's 
blood 
Runs yearly warna beneath a church- 
in Ill's finger ; 
To such a holy hoiKe of stone and 
wood, 
Wliereof a cloud of angels was the 
bringer 
From Bethlehem to Loreto ! — Were it 
good 
For any pope on earth to be a flinger 
Of stones against those high-niched 
counterfeits ? 
Apost.itcs only are iconoclasts. 

He dares not s;iy, while this false 
thing abets 
Tluit true thing, ' this is false ! ' he 
keepi his fasts 
And prayei-s, as prayer and fast were 
silver frets 
To change a note upon a string that 
lasts. 
And make a lie a virtue. Now, if he 
Did more than this, — higher hoped and 
braver dared, 
I think he were a pope in jeopardy. 
Or no pope rather ! for his truth had 
barred 
'I'he vaulting of his life. And cer- 
tainly 
If he do only this, mankind's regard 
Moves on from him at once, to seek 
some new 
Teacher and leader I He is good and 
gre at 
According to the deeds a jxjpe can 
do : 
Most liberal, save those bonds ; affection- 
ate. 
As princes may be ; and, as priests 
are, true — 
But only the ninth Pius after eight. 
When all's praised most. At best and 
hopefullcst. 
He's pope — we want a man ! his heart 
beats warm. 
But, like the prince enchanted to the 
waist. 
He sits in stone, and hardens by a 
charm 



Into the marble of his throne high- 
placed ! 
Mild benediction waves his saintly 
arm — 
So good ! but what we want's a per- 
fect man. 
Complete and all alive : half traver- 
tine 
Half-suits our need, and ill subserves 
our plan. 
Feet, knees, nerves, sinews, energies di- 
vine 
Were never yet too much for men who 
ran 
In such hard ways as must be this of 
thine. 
Deliver whom we seek, whoe'er thou 
art. 
Pope, prince, or peasant I If, indeed, 
the first. 
The noblest, therefore ! since the 
heroic heart 
Within thee must be great enough to 
burst 
Those trammels buckling to the baser 
part 
Thy saintly peers in Rome, who crossed 
and cursed 
With the same finger. 

XXVII. 

Come, appear, be found. 
If Pope or peasant come ! we hear the 
cock, 
The courtier of the mountains when 
first crowned 
With golden dawn ; and orient glories 
flock 
To meet the sun upon the highest 
ground 
Take voice and work ! we wait to hear 
thee knock 
At some one of our Florentine nine 
gates. 
On each of which was imaged a sub- 
lime 
Face of a Tuscan genius, which for 
hate's 
And love's sake both, our Florence in 
her prime 
Turned boldly on all comers to her 
states. 
As heroes turned their shields in antique 
time. 



CAS A GUIDI WINDOWS. 



a8i 



Blazoned with honourable acts. And 
though 
The gates are blank now of such images. 
And Petrarch looks no more from 
Nicolo 
Toward dear Arezzo, 'twixt the acacia 
trees, 
Nor Dante, from gate Gallo — still we 
know. 
Despite the razing of the blazonries. 
Remains the consecration of the 
shield,— 
The dead heroic faces will start out 
On all these gates, if foes should take 
the field, 
And blend sublimely, at the earliest 
shout. 
With living heroes who will scorn to 
yield 
A hair's-breadth ev'n, when, gazing 
round about, 
They find in what a glorious company 
They fight the foes of Florence ! Who 
will grudge 
His one poor life, when that great man 
we see 
Has given five hundred years, the world 
being judge. 
To help the glory of his Italy ? 
Who, born the fair side of the Alps, will 
budge. 
When Dante stays, when Anosto 
sta ys. 
When Petrarch stays for ever ? Ye bring 
swords. 
My Tuscans ? Why, if wanted in 
this haze. 
Bring swords, but first bring souls ! — 
bring thoughts and words 
Unrusted by a tear of yesterday's. 
Yet awful by its wrong, and cut these 
cords 
And mow this green lash falseness to 
the roots. 
And shut the mouth of hell below the 
swathe ! 
And if ye can bring songs too, let the 
lute's 
Recoverable music softly bathe 

Some poet's hand, that, through all 
bursts and bruits 
Of popular passion— all unripe and rathe 
Convictions of the popular intellect — 
Ye may not lack a finger up the air, 



Annunciativc, reproving, pure, erect. 
To show which way your first Ideal 
bare 
The whiteness of its wings, when, 
sorely pecked 
By falcons on your wrists, it unaware 
Arose up overhead, and out of sight. 



Meanwhile, let all the far ends of the 
world 
Breathe back the deep breath of their 
old delight, 
To swell the Italian banner just un- 
furled. 
Help, lands of Europe! for, if Aus- 
tria fight. 
The drums will bar your slumber. Had 
ye curled 
The laurel for your thousand artists' 
brows. 
If these Italian hands had planted 
none ? 
Can any sit down idle in the house. 
Nor hear appeals from Buonarotti'.-i 
stone 
And Raffael's canvas, rousing and to 
rouse ? 
Where's Poussin's master ? Gallic Avig^ 
non 
Bred Laura, and Vaucluse's fount h.i* 
stirred 
The heart of France too strongly,— as it 
lets 
Its little stieam out, like a wizard's 
bird 
Which bounds upon its emerald wing, 
and wets 
The rocks on each side — that she 
should not gird 
Her loins with Charlemagne's sword 
when foes beset 
Tlie country of her Petrarch. Spain 
may well 
Be minded how from Italy she caught, 
<To mingle with her tinkling Moorish 
bell, 
A fuller cadence and a subtler thought ; 
And even the New World, the re- 
ceptacle 
Of freemen, may send glad men, as it 
ought. 
To greet Vespucci Amerigo's door ; 



=84 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



While England claims, by trump of 

poetry, 

Verona, Venice, the Ravenna shore. 

And dearer holds John Milton's Fiesole 

Than Langlande's Malvern with the 

stars in flower. 

XXIX. 

And Vallombrosa, we two went to see 
Last June, beloved conipanion.—where 
sublime 
The mountains live in holy families. 
And the slow pinewoods ever climb 
and climb 
Half up their breasts ; just stagger as 
they seize 
Some gray crag — drop back with it 
many a time, 
And straggle blindly down the preci- 
pice I 
The Vallombrosan brooks were strewn 
as thick 
That June- day, knee-deep, with dead 
beech en leaves. 
As Milton saw them ere his heart 
grew sick, 
And his eyes blind. I think the monks 
and beeves 
Are all the same too : scarce they 
have changed the wick 
On good St. Gualbert's altar, which re- 
ceives 
The convent's pilgrims ; and the pool 
in front 
Wherein the hill-stream trout are cast, 
to wait 
The beatific vision and the grunt 
Used at refectory, keeps its weedy state. 
To baffle saintly abbots who would 
count 
The fish across their breviary, nor 'bate 
The measure of their steps. O water- 
falls 
And forests ! sound and silence ! moun- 
tains bare. 
That leap up peak by peak, and catch 
the palls 
Of purple and silver mist to rend and 
share 
With one another, at electric calls 
Of life in the sunbeams, — till we cannot 
dare 
Fix your shapes, count your number ! 
we must think 



Your beauty and your glory helped toj 

The cup of Milton's soul so to thc| 
brink 

He never more was thirsty when God's! 
will 
Had shattered to his sense the last 
chain-link 
By which he had drawn from Nature's | 
visible 

The fresh well-water. Satisfied byi 
this, ' I 

He sang of Adam's paradise and smiled, | 
Remembering Vallombrosa. There- \ 
fore is 
The place divine to English man and I 
child - 
And pilgrims leave their souls here ia . 
a kiss. 



For Italy's the whole earth's treasury, 
piled I 

With reveries of gentle ladies, flung .1 
Aside, like ravelled silk, from the life's * 
worn stuff — 
With coins of scholars' fancy, which, 
being rung 
On work-day counter, still sound silver-|| 
proof — I 

In short, with all the dreams of 
dreamers young. 
Before their heads have time for slip- 
ping off 
Hope's pillow to the ground. How 
oft, indeed. 
We've sent our souls out from the rigid 
north. 
On bare white feet which would not 
• print nor bleed 

To climb the Alpine passes and look 1 
forth. 
Where booming low the Lombard 
rivers lead 
To gardens, vineyards, all a dream is 
worth, — 
Sights, thou and I, Love, have seen 
afterward 
From Tuscan Bellosguardo, wide 
awake,* 



* Galileo's villa, close to Florence, ia built ( 
an miiineuce called Bellosguardo. 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



235 



When, standing on the actual blessed 
sward 
Where Galileo stood at nights to take 
The vision of the stars, we have found 
it hard. 
Gazing upon the earth and heaven, to 
make 
A choice of beauty. 

Therefore let us all 
Refreshed in England or in other land, 
iJy visions, with their fountain -rise 
and fall 
Of this earth's darling, — we, who under- 
stand 
A little how the Tuscan musical 
Vowels do round themselves as if they 
plann'd 
Eternities of separate sweetness, — we 
Who loved Sorrento vines in picture- 
book. 
Or ere in wine-cup we pledged faith 
or glee — 
Who loved Rome's wolf, with demi- 
gods at suck. 
Or ere we loved truth's own divin- 

Who loved, in brief, the classic hill and 
brook. 
And Ovid's dreaming tales, and Pe- 
trarch's song, 
Or ere we loved Love's self even ! — let 
us give 
The blessing of our souls, and wish 
them strong 
To bear it to the height where prayers 
arrive, 
When faithful spirits pray against a 
wrong ; 
To this great cause of southern men, 
who strive 
In God's name for man's rights, and 
shall not fail I 



Behold, they shall not fail. The shouts 
ascend 
Above the shrieks, in Naples, and 
prevail. 
Rows of shot corpses, waiting for the 
end 
Of burial, seem to smile up straight 
and pale 



Into the azure air, and apprehend 
That final gun-flash from Palermo's 
coast. 
Which lightens their apocalypse of 
death. 
So let them die ! The world shows 
nothing lost ; 
Therefore, not blood 1 above or under- 
neath, 
What matter, brothers, if ye keep 
your post 
On duty's side? As sword returns to 
sheath. 
So dust to grave, but souls find place 
in Heaven. 
Heroic daring is the true success. 
The eucharistic bread requires no 
leaven ; 
And though your ends were hopeless, 
we should bless 
Your cause as holy! Strive — and, 
having striven. 
Take, for God's recompense, that right- 
eousness ! 



PART II. 



I WROTE a meditation and a dream, 

Hearing a little child sing in the street 
I leant upon his music as a theme, 
Till it gave way beneath my heart's 
full beat. 
Which tried at an exultant prophecy 
But dropped before the measure was 
complete — 
Alas, for songs and hearts ! O Tuscany, 
O Dante's Florence, is the type too 

plain ? 
Didst thou, too, only sing of liberty. 

As little children take up a high strain 
With unintentioned voices, and break 

off 
^ To sleep upon their mothers* knees 

again ? 
Could St thou not watch one hour ? Then, 
sleep enough — 
That sleep may hasten manhood, and 
sustain 
The faint pale spirit with som.e muscular 
»tuff. 



CASA GUlDt WINDOWS. 



But we who cannot slumber as thou 
dost. 
We thinkers, who have thought for thee 
and failed. 
We liopers, who have hoped for thee 
and lost, 
We poets, wandered round by dreams,* 
who hailed 
From this Atrides' roof (with lintel- 
post 
Which still drips blood, — the worst part 
hath prevailed) 
The fire-voice of the beacons, to de- 
clare 
Troy taken, sorrow ended, — cozened 
through 
A crimson sunset in a misty air, — 
What now remains for such as we, to do ? 
— God's judgments, peradventure, 
will he bare 
To the roots of thunder, if we kneel a. id 
sue? 



From Casa Guldi windows I looked 
forth. 
And saw ten thousand eyes of Floren- 
tines 
Flash back the triumph of the Lom- 
bard north, — 
Saw fifty banners, freighted with the 
signs 
And exultations of the awakened 
earth, 
Float on above the multitvide in lines. 
Straight to the Pitti. So, the vision 
went. 
And so, between those populous rough 
hands 
Raised in the sun, Duke Leopold out- 
leant, 
And took the patriot's oath, which 
henceforth stands 
Among the oaths of perjurers, eminent 
To catch the lightnings ripened for 
these lands. 



Why swear at all, thou false Duke 
Leopold ? 

« Referring to the well-known opening pass- 
age of the At;amemnon of .<£3chylu». 



What need to swear? What need to 
boa.st thy blood 
Unspoilt of Austria, and thy heart 
unsold 
Away from Florence? It was under- 
stood 
God made thee not too vigorous or 
too bold. 
And men had patience with thy quiet 
mood, 
And women, pity, as they saw thee 
pace 
Their festive streets with premature 
grey hairs : 
We turned the mild dejection of thy 
face 
To princely meanings, took thy wrink- 
ling cares 
For ruffling hopes, and called thee 
weak, not base. 
Nay, better light the torches for more 
prayers 
And smoke the pale Madonnas at ths 
shrine, 
Being still ' our poor Grand-duke,' * our 
good Grand-duke,' 
' Who cannot help the Austrian in his 
line,' 
Than write an oath upon a nation's book 
For men to spit at with scorn's blurring 
brine ! 
Who dares forgive what none can over- 
look ? 



For me, I do repent me in this dust 
Of towns and temples, which makes 
Italy,— 
I sigh amid the sighs which breathe a 
gust 
Of dying century to century. 

Around us on the uneven crater-crust 
Of the old worlds, — I bow my soul and 
knee. 
Absolve me, patriots, of my woman's 
fault 
That ever I believed the man was true. 
These sceptred strangers shun the 
common salt 
And, therefore, when the general board's 
in view. 
And they stand up to carve for blind 
and halt. 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



The wise suspect the viands which ensue. 
And 1 repent that in this time and 
place. 
Where many corpse-lights of experience 
burn 
From Caesar's and Lorenzo's festering 
race. 
To enlighten groping reasoners, I could 
learn 
No better counsel for a simple case 
Than to put faith in princes, in my turn. 
Had all the death-piles of the ancient 
years 
Flared up in vain before me ? Knew I 
not 
What stench arises from some purple 
gears— 
And how the sceptres witness whence 
they got 
Their briar-wood, crackling through 
the atmosphere's 
Foul smoke, by princely perjuries, kept 
hot? 
Forgive me, ghosts of patriots, — 
Brutus, thou. 
Who trailest downhill into life again 
Thy blood-weighed cloak, to indict 
me with thy slow 
Reproachful eyes! — for being taught in 
vain 
That while the illegitimate Caesars 
show 
Of meaner stature than the first full 
strain, 
(Confessed incompetent to conquer 
Gaul) 
They swoon as feebly and cross Rubi- 
cons 
As rashly as any Julius of them all. 
Forgive, that I forgot the mind which 
runs 
Through absolute races, too unscepti- 
cal ! 
I saw the man among his little sons, 
His lips were warm with kisses while 
he swore, — 
And I, because I am a woman, T, 

Who felt my own child's coming life 
before 
riie prescience of my soul, and held 
faith high, 
1 could not bear to think, whoever 
bore. 



That lips, so warmed, could shape so 
cold a lie. 



From Casa Guidi windows I looked 
out. 
Again looked, and beheld a different 
sight. 
The Duke had fled before the peo- 
ple's shout 
'Long live the Duke!' A people, to 
speak right. 
Must speak as soft as courtiers, lest a 
doubt 
Should curdle brows of gracious sover- 
eigns, white 
Moreover that same dangerous shout- 
ing meant 
Some gratitude for future favours, 
which 
Were only promised ; — the Constitu- 
ent 
Implied ; — the whole being subject to 
the hitch 
In motu proprios, very incident 
i To all these Czars, from Paul to Paulo- 
' vitch. 

Whereat the people rose up in the 
dust 
Of the ruler's flying feet, and shouted 
still 
And loudly, only, this time, as was 
just. 
Not ' Live the Duke,' who had fled, for 
good or ill. 
But ' Live the People,' who remained 
and must. 
The unrenounced and unrenounceable. 

VIl. 

Long live the people ! How they 
lived ! and boiled 
And bubbled in the cauldron of the 
street ! 
How the young blustered, nor the old 
recoiled. 
And what a thunderoas stir of tongues 
and feet 
Trod flat the palpitating bells, and 
foiled 
The joy-guns of their echo, shattering 
it! 



a33 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



How they pulled down the Duke's 
arms everywhere 1 
How they set up new caf4-signs, to 
show 
Where patriots might sip ices in pure 
air — 
(The fresh paint smelhng somewhat,) 
To and fro 
How marched the civic guard, and 
stopped to stare 
When boys broke windows in a civic 
glow. 
How rebel songs were sung to loyal 
tunes, 
And Bishops cursed in ecclesiastical me- 
tres ! 
How all the Circoli grew large as 
moons, 
And all the speakers, moonstruck ! — 
thankful greeters 
Of prospects which struck poor the 
ducal boons, 
A mere free press, and chambers I — 
frank repeaters 
Of great Guerazzi's praises . . . 
' There's a man. 
The father of the land ! — who, truly 
great. 
Takes off that national disgrace and 
ban. 
The farthing-tax upon our Florence- 
gate, 
And saves Italia as he only can.* 
How all the nobles fled, and would not 
wait. 
Because they were most noble 1 which 
being so, 
How liberals vowed to burn their pal- 
aces, 
Because free Tuscans were not free to 

go- 
How grown men raged at Austria s 
wickedness. 
And smoked, — while fifty striplings in 
a row 
Marched straight to Piedmont for the 
wrong's redress ! 
You say we failed in duty, we who 
wore 
Black velvet like Italian democrats, 
Who slashed our sleeves like patriots, 
nor forswore 
The true republic in the form of hats ? 



We chased the archbishop from the 
duomo door — 
We chalked the walls with bloody ca- 
veats 
Against all tyrants. If we did not fight 
Exactly, we fired muskets up the air, 
To show that victory was ours of 
right. 
We met, had free discussion every- 
where, 
Except, perhaps, i' the chambers, day 
and night : 
We proved the poor should be employed, 
. . . that's fair, — 
And yet the rich not worked for 
anywise, — 
Pay certified, yet prayers abrogated. 

Full work secured, yet liabilities 
To over- work excluded, — not one bated 
Of all our holidays, that still at twice 
Or thrice a-week, are moderately rated. 
We proved that Austria was dis- 
lodged, or would 
Or should be, and that Tuscany in arms 
Should, would, dislodge her, ending the 

old feud ; 
And yet, to leave our piazzas, shops, and 
farms, 
For the bare sake of fighting, was not , 
good. > 

We proved that also — ' Did we carry 
charms 
Against being killed ourselves, that 
we should rush 
On killing others? What! desert here- 
with 
Our wives and mothers! — was that 
duty ? Tush ! ' 
At which we shook the sword within the 
sheath. 
Like heroes — only louder ! and the 
flush 
Ran up the cheek to meet the future 
wreath. 
Nay, what we proved, we shouted — 
how we shouted, 
(Especially the boys did) boldly planting 
That tree of liberty whose fruit is 
doubted. 
Because the roots are not of nature's 
granting— 
A tree of good and evil ! — none, with- 
out it, 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



2S9. 



Gro\r gods !— alas, and, with it, men are 
wanting. 



O holy knowledge, holy liberty, 
O holy rights of nations ! If I speak 
These bitter things against the jug- 
glery 
Of days that in your names proved 
blind and weak, 
It is that tears are bitter. When we 
see 
The brown skulls grin at death in 
churchyards blealc, 
We do not cry, 'This Yorick is too 
light,' 
For death grows deathlier with that 
mouth he makes. 
So with my mocking. Bitter things 
I write, 
Because my soul is bitter for your sakes, 
O freedom ! O my Florence 1 



Men who might 
Do greatly in a universe that breaks 
And burns, must ever know before 
they do. 
Courage and patience are but sacrifice ; 

A sacrifice is offered for and to 
Something conceived of. Each man 
pays a price 
For what himself counts precious, 
whether true 
Or false the appreciation it implies. 
But here, — no knowedge, no concep- 
tion, nought ! 
Desire was absent, that provides great 
deeds 
From out the greatness of prevenient 
thought ; 
And action, action, like a flame that 
needs 
A steady breath and fuel, being 
caught 
Up, like a burning reed from other 
reeds. 
Flashed in the empty and uncertain 
air. 
Then wavered, then went out. Behold, 
who blames 
A crooked course, when not a goal is 
there. 



To round the fervid striving of the 

games ? 

An ignorance of means may minister 

To greatness, but an ignorance of aims 

Makes it impossible to be great at all. 

So with our Tuscans 1 Let none dare to 

say, 
Here virtue never can be national 
Here fortitude can never cut its way 
Between the Austrian muskets, out of 
thrall. 
I tell you rather that whoever may 
Discern true ends here, shall grow 
pure enough 
To love them, brave enough to strive for 
them. 
And strong enough to reach them, 
though the roads be rough : 
That having learnt — by no mere apoph- 
thegm — 
Nor just the draping of a graceful 
stuff 
About a statue, broidered at the hem, — 
Not just the trilling on an opera stage. 
Of ' liberta ' to bravos— (a fair word. 

Yet too allied to inarticulate rage 
And breathless sobs, for singing, though 
the cord 
Were deeper than they struck it !) — 
but the guage 
Of civil wants sustained, and wrongs 
abhorred, — 
The serious, sacred meaning and full 
use. 
Of freedom for a nation, — then, indeecf, 
Our Tuscans, underneath the bloody 
dews 
Of some new morning, rising up agreed 
And bold, will want no Saxon souls 
or thew.s. 
To sweep their piazzas clear of Austria's 
breed. 



Alas, alas I it was not so this time. 
Conviction was not, courage failed, and 
^ truth 
Was something to be doubted of. 
The mime 
Changed masks, because a mime ; the 
tide as smooth 
In running in as out ; no sense of 
crime 



290 



CASA CUIDI WINDOWS. 



Because no sense of virtue. Sudden ruth 
Seized on the people . . . they would 
h:ive again 
Their Grand-duke, and leave Guerazzi, 
though 
He took that tax from Florence : — 
Much in vain 
He takes it from the market-carts, we 
trow. 
While urgent that no market-men re- 
main, 
But all march off and leave the spade 
and plough 
To die among the Lombards. Was it 
thus 
The dear paternal Duke did ? ' Live the 
Uuke ! ' 
At which the joy-bells multitudinous. 
Swept by an opposite wind, as loudly 
shook. 
Recall the mild Archbishop to his 
house. 
To bless the people with his frightened 
look. 
He shall not yet be hanged, you com- 
prehend. 
Seize on Guerazzi ; guard him in full 
view. 
Or else we stab him in the back, to end. 
Rub out those chalked devices ! Set up 
new 
The Duke's arms ; doff your Phry- 
gian caps ; and mend 
The pavement of the piazzas broke into 
By barren poles of freedom I Smooth 
the way 
For the ducal carriage, lest his highness 
sigh 
'Here trees of liberty grew yester- 
day.' 
Long live the Duke I — How roared the 
cannonry. 
How rocked the bell-towers, and 
through thickening spray 
Of nosegays, wreaths, and kerchiefs 
tossed on high, 
How marched the civic guard, the 
people still 
Being good at shouts, — especially the 
boys. 
Alas, poor people, of an luifledged will 
Most fitly expressed by such a callow 
voice 1 



' Alas, still poorer duke, incapable 
Of being worthy even so much noise 1 



You think he came back instantly, 
with thanks 
And tears in his faint eyes, and hands 
extended 
To stretch the franchise through their 
utmost ranks? 
That having, like a father, apprehended. 
He came to pardon fatherly those 
pranks 
Played out, and now in filial service 
ended ?— 
That some love token, like a prince, 
he threw. 
To meet the people's love-call, in rci 
turn ? 
Well, how he came I will relate to 
you ; 
And if your hearts should burn, why, 
hearts must burn, 
To make the ashes which things old 
and new 
Shall be washed clean in — as this Duke 
will learn. 



From Casa Guidi windows gazing, 
then, 
I saw and witness how the Duke came 
back. 
The regular tramp of horses and tread 
of men 
Did smite the silence like an anvil 
black 
And sparkless. With her wide eyes 
at full strain. 
Our Tuscan nurse exclaimed, ' Alack, 
alack, 
Signora ! these shall be the Austrians,' 
' Nay, 
Be still,' I answered, ' do not wake the 
child !' 
For so, my two-months' baby sleep- 
ing lay 
In milky dreams upon the bed and 
smiled ; 
And 1 thought, ' he shall sleep on 
while he may. 
Through the world's ba.seness. Not 
being yet defiled. 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



aqi 



"Why should he be disturbed by what 
is done ?' 
Then, gazing, I beheld the long-drawn 
street 
Live out, from end to end, full in the 
sun. 
With Austria's thousands. Sword and 
bayonet, 
Horse, foot, artillery, — cannons roll- 
ing on. 
Like blind, slow storm-clouds gestant 
with the heat 
Of undeveloped lightnings, each be- 
strode 
By a single man, dust-white from head 
to heel. 
Indifferent as the dreadful thing he 
rode. 
Like a sculptored Fate serene and terri- 
ble ! 
As some smooth river which has over- 
flowed. 
Will slow and silent down its current 
wheel 
A loosened forest, all the pines erect — 
So, swept, in mute significance of storm, 
The marshalled thousands, — not an 
eye deflect 
To left or right, to catch a novel form 

Of Florence city adorned by architect 
And carver, or of beauties live and 
warm 
Scared at the casements, — all, straight- 
forward eyes 
And faces, held as steadfast as their 
swords. 
And cognisant of acts, not imageries. 
The key, O Tuscans, too well fits the 
wards ! 
Ye asked for mimes ; these bring you 
tragedies — 
For purple ; these shall wear it as your 
lords. 
Ye played like children : die like in- 
nocents ! 
Ye mimicked lightnings with a torch : 
the crack 
Of the actual bolt, your pastime, cir- 
cumvents. 
Ye called up ghosts, believing they were 
slack 
To follow any voice from Gilboa's 
tents, . . . 



Here's Samuel ! — and, so, Grand-duke«. 
come back. 

XIII. 

And yet they are no prophets though 
they come. 
That awful ma»tle they are drawing 
close. 
Shall be searched, one day, by the 
shafts of Doom, 
Through double folds now hoodwinking 
the brows. 
Resuscitated mooarchs disentomb 
Grave-reptiles with them, in their new 
life-throes : 
Let such beware. Behold, the people 
waits. 
Like God. As He, in his serene of 
might. 
So they, in their endurance of long 
straits. 
Ye stamp no nation out, though day and 
night 
Ye tread them with that absolute heel 
which grates 
And grinds them flat from all attempted 
he ight. 
You kill worms sooner with a garden - 
spade 
Than you kill peoples : peoples will not 
die ; 
The tail curls stronger when you lop 
the head ; 
They writhe at every wound and mul- 
tiply. 
And shudder into a heap of life that's 
made 
Thus vital from God's own vitality. 
'Tis hard to shrivel back a day of 
God's 
Once fixed for judgment : 'tis hard to 
change 
The people's, when they rise beneath 
their loads 
And heave them from their backs with 
violent wrench, 
To crush the oppressor. For that 
judgment rod's 
The measure of this popular revenge. 



Meantime, from Casa Guidi windows 
we 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



Beheld the armament of Austria flow 

Into the drowning heart of Tuscany. 
And yet none wept, none cursed ; or, if 
'twas so, 
They wept and cursed in silence. Si- 
lently 
Our noisy Tuscans watched the invading 
foe ; 
They had learnt silence. Pressed 
against the wall 
And grouped upon the church-steps 
opposite, 
A few pale men and women stared at 
all. 
God knows what they were feeling, with 
their white 
Constrained faces ! — they, so prodigal 
Of cry and gesture when the world 
goes right. 
Or wrong indeed. But here, was 
depth of wrong. 
And here, still water : they were silent 
here : 
And through that sentient silence, 
struck along 
That measured tramp from which it 
stood out clear 
Distinct the sound and silence, like a 
gong 
At midnight, each by the other awfuller. 
While every soldier in his cap dis- 
played 
A leaf of olive. Dusty, bitter thing ! 
Was such plucked at Novara, is it 
said? 



A cry is up in England, which doth ring 
The hollow world through, that for 
ends of trade 
And virtue, and God's better worship- 
ping. 
We henceforth should exalt the name 
of Peace, 
And leave those rusty wars that eat the 
soul, — 
Besides their clippings at our golden 
fleece. 
I, too, have loved peace, and from bole 
to bole 
Of immemorial, undeciduous trees. 
Would write, as lovers use, upon a scroll 
The holy name of Peace, and set it 
high 



Where none could pluck it down. On 
trees, I say, — 
Not upon gibbets ! — With the green- 
ery 
Of dewy branches and the flowery May, 
Sweet meditation betwixt earth and 

sky 

Providing, for the shepherd's holiday ! 
Not upon gibbets ! though th<e vuU 
ture leaves 
The bones to quiet, which he first picked 
bare. 
Not upon dungeons ! though the 
wretch who grieves 
And groans within, stirs less the outer 
air 
Than any little field-mouse stirs the 
sheaves. 
Not upon chain - bolts ! though the 
slave's despair 
Has dulled his helpless, miserable 
brain. 
And left him blank beneath the free- 
man's whip. 
To sing and laugh out idiocies of pain. 
Nor yet on starving homes ! where 
many a lip 
Has sobbed itself asleep through 
curses vain ! 
I love no peace which is not fellowship. 
And which includes not mercy. 1 
would have 
Rather, the raking of the guns across 
'I'he world, and shrieks against Hea- 
ven's architrave. 
Rather, the struggle in the slippery fosse 
Of dying men and horses, and the 
wave 
Blood-bubbling. . . . Enough said ! — 
By Christ's own cross. 
And by the faint heart of my woman- 
hood. 
Such things are better than a Peace 
which sits 
Beside the hearth in self-commended 
mood. 
And takes no thought how wind and 
rain by fits 
Are howling out of doors against the 
good 
Of the poor wanderer. What ! your 
peace admits 
Of outside anguish while it keeps at 
home ? 



CASA GUIDl WINDOWS. 



9Q3 



I loathe to take its name upon my 
tongue— 
'lis nowise peace. 'Tis treason, stiff 
with doom, — 
'I'i-; gagged despair, and inarticulate 
wrong, 
Annihilated Poland, stifled Rome, 
Dazed Naples, Hungary fainting 'neath 
the thong, 
And Austria wearing a smooth olive- 
leaf 
On her brute forehead, while her hoofs 
outpress 
The life from these Italian souls, in 
brief. 
O Lord of Peace, who art Lord of 
Righteousness, 
Constrain the anguished worlds from 
sin and grief. 
Pierce them with conscience, purge them 
with redress, 
And give us peace whx'i is no coun- 
terfeit ! 



But wherefore should we look out any 
more 
From Casa Guidi windows ? Shut 
them straight ; 
And let us sit down by the folded door 
And veil our saddened faces, and so, 
wait 
What next the judgment-heavens make 
ready for. 
I have grown weary of these windows. 
Sights 
Come thick enough and clear enough in 
thought. 
Without the sunshine ; souls have in- 
ner lights : 
And since the Grand-duke has come 
back and brought 
This army of the North which thus 
requites 
His filial South, we leave him to be 
taught. 
His South, too, has learnt something 
certainly, 
Whereof the practice will bring profit 
soon ; 
And peradventure other eyes may see. 
From Casa Guidi windows, what is 
done 



Or undone. Whatsoever deeds they 
be. 
Pope Pius will be glorified in none. 

XVII. 

Record that gain, Mazzini ! — it shall 
top 
Some heights of sorrow. Peter's rock, 
so named'. 
Shall lure no vessel any more to drop 
Among the breakers. Peter's chair is 
shamed 
Like any vulgar throne the nations 
lop 
To pieces for their firewood unreclaim- 
ed ; 
And, when it burns too, we shall see 
as well 
\\\ Italy as elsewhere. Let it burn. 

The cross, accounted still adorable. 
Is Christ's cross only ! — if the thief's 
would earn 
Some stealthy genufle.vions, we rebel ; 
And here the impenitent thief's has had 
its turn. 
As God knows ; and the people on 
their knees 
Scoff and toss back the crozier-s stretch- 
ed like yokes 
To press their heads down lower by 
degrees. 
So Italy, by means of these last strokes. 
Escapes the danger which preceded 
these. 
Of leaving captured hands in cloven 
oaks . . . 
Of leaving very .souls within the 
buckle 
Whence bodies struggled outward . . . 

of supposing 
That freemen may like bondsmen kneel 

and truckle. 
And then stand upas usual, without los- 
ing 
An inch of stature. 
* Those whom she- wolves suckle 

Will bite as wolves do, in the grapple- 
closing 
Of adverse interests : this, at last, is 
known, 
(Thank Pius for the lesson) that albeit 
Among the Popedora's hundred heads 
of stone 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



Which blink down on you from the 
roof's retreat 
In Siena's tiger-striped cathedral, — 
Joan 
And Borgia 'mid their fellows you may 
greet, 
A harlot and a devil, you will see 
Not a man, still less angel, grandly 
set 
With open soul to render man more 
free. 
The fishers are still thinking of the net. 
And if not thinking of the hook too, 
we 
Are counted somewhat deeply in their 
debt: 
But that's a rare case — so, by hook and 
crook 
They take the advantage, agonizing 
Christ 
By rustier nails than those of Cedron's 
brook, 
I' the people's body very cheaply 
priced ; 
And quote high priesthood out of 
Holy book. 
While buying death - fields with the 
sacrificed. 



Priests, priests ! — there's no such name, 
God's own, except 
Ye take most vainly. Though Heaven's 
lifted gate 
The priestly ephod in sole glory swept, 
When Christ ascended, entered in, and 
sate 
With victor face sublimely overwept, 
At Deity's right hand, to mediate, 

He alone, He for ever On his breast 
The Urim and the Thummim, fed with 
fire 
From the full Godhead, flicker with 
the unrest 
Of human, pitiful heartbeats Come up 
higher. 
All Christians! Levi's tribe is dis- 
possessed ! 
That solitary alb ye shall admire. 
But not cast lots for. The last chrism, 

poured right. 
Was on that Head, and poured for 
burial 



And not for domination in men's 
sight. 
What are these churches ? The old 
temple wall 
Doth overlook them juggling with the 
sleight 
Of surplice, candlestick, and altar-pall. 
East church and west church, ay, 
north church and south, 
Rome's church and England's — let them 
all repent. 
And make concordats 'twi.xt their soul 
and mouth. 
Succeed St. Paul by working at the tent. 
Become infallible guides by speaking 
truth. 
And excommunicate their pride that 
bent 
And cramped the souls of men. 

Why, even here. 
Priestcraft burns out ; the twined linen 
blazes. 
Not, like asbestos, to grow white and 
clear. 
But all to perish ! — while the fire-smell 
raises 
To life some swooning spirits who, 
last year. 
Lost breath and heart in these church- 
stifled places. 
Why, almost, through this Pius, we 
believed 
The priesthood could be an honest thing, 
he smiled 
So saintly while our corn was being 
sheaved 
For his own granaries. Showing now 
defiled 
His hireling hands, a better help's 
achieved 
Than if he blessed us shepherd-like and 
mild. 
False doctrine, strangled by its own 
amen. 
Dies in the throat of all this nation. 
Who 
Will speak a pope's name, as they 
rise again ? 
What woman or what child will count 
him true ? 
What dreamer praise him with the 
voice or pen ? 
What man fight for him ? — Pius has his 
due. 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



ag«. 



Record that gain, Mazzini ! — Yes, but 
first 
Set down thy people's faults : — set down 
the want 
Of soul-conviction ; set down aims 
dispersed, 
And incoherent means, and valour 
scant 
Because of scanty faith, and schisms 
accursed 
That wrench these brother-hearts from 
covenant 
With freedom and each other. Set 
down this 
\nd this, and see to overcome it when 
The seasons brings the ffuits thou 
wilt not miss 
f wary. Let no cry of patriot men 
Distract thee from the stern analysis 
3f masses who cry only : keep thy km 
Clear as thy soul is virtuous. Heroes' 
blood 
Splashed up against thy noble brow in 
Rome. — 
Let such not blind thee to an inter- 
lude 
iVhich was not also holy, yet did come 
"Twixt sacramental actions: — brother- 
hood, 
Despised even there, — and something 
of the doom 
Of Remus, in the trenches. Listen 
now — 
lossi died silent near where Caesar 
died. 
He did not say, ' My Brutus, is. it 
thou V 
Jut Italy unquestioned testified, 

/ killed him! — / am Brutus. — I 
avow.' 
\X which the whole world's laugh of 
scorn replied, 
A poor maimed copy of Brutus !' 

Too much like, 
ndeed, to be so unlike. Too unskilled 
At Phihppi and the honest battle- 
pike, 
^o be so skilful where a man is killed 
Near Pompey's statue, and the dag- 
gers strike 
Lt unawares i' the throat. Was thas 
fulfilled 



An omen once of Michel Angelo, — 
When Marcus Brutus he conceived com- 
plete. 
And strove to hurl him out by blow 
on blow 
Upon the marble, at Art's thundcrhent, 
I'ill haply some pre-shadow rising 
slow 
Of what his Italy would fancy meet 
To be called Brutus, straight hisplar,- 
tic hand 
Fell back before his prophet soul, and 
left 
A fragment ... a maimed Brutus, — 
but more grand 
Than this so named of Rome, was ! 

Let thy weft 
Present one woof and warp, Maz- 
zini ! — stand 
With no man hankering for a dagger's 
heft,— 
No, not for Italy ! — nor .stand apart. 
No, not for the republic ! — from those 
pure 
Brave men who hold the level of thy 
heart 
In patriot truth, as lover and as doer. 
Albeit they will not follow where thou 
art 
As extreme theorist. Trust and distrust 
fewer ; 
And so bind strong and keep unstained 
the cause 
Which (God's sign granted,) war-trumps 
newly blown 
Shall yet annunciate to the world's 
applause. 



But now, the world is busy ; it has 
grown 
A Fair-going world. Imperial Eng- 
land draws 
The flowing ends of the earth, from 
Fez, Canton, 
Delhi and Stockholm, Athens and 
Madrid, 
The Russias and the vast Americas, 
Ak if a queen drew in her robes 
amid 
Her golden cincture, — isles.peninsulas. 
Capes, continents, far inland coun- 
tries hid 



396 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



By Jasper-sands and hills of chrysopras, 
All trailing in their splendours through 
the door 
Of the gorgeous Crystal Palace. Every 
nation. 
To every other nation strange of yore. 
Gives face to face the civic salutation. 
And holds up in a proud right hand 
before 
That congress, the best work which she 
can fashion 
By her best means — ' These corals, 
will you please 
To match against your oaks? They 
grow as fast 
Within my wilderness of purple 
seas. — 
' This diamond stared upon me as I 
passed 
(As a live god's eye from a marble 
frieze) 
Along a dark of diamonds. Is it 
classed ? ' — 
' I wove these stuffs so subtly that the 
gold 
Swims to the surface of the silk like 
cream, 
And curdles to fair patterns. Ye be- 
hold ! '— 
'These delicatest muslins rather seem 
Than be, you think? Nay, touch 
them and be bold. 
Though such veiled Chakhi's face in 
Hafiz ' dream.' — 
* These carpets — you walk slow on 
them like kings. 
Inaudible like spirits, while your foot 
Dips deep in velvet roses and such 
things.' — 
'Even Apollonius might commend this 
flute.* 
The music winding through the stops, 
upsprings 
To make the player very rich. Com- 
pute.' — 
Here's goblet-glass, to take in with 
your wine 



• Philostratus reliites of Apollonius that he 
objected to the musical instrument of Linus 
the Khodian, its incompetence to enrich and 
beautify. The history of music in our day, 
would, upon the former point, luCBcisntly 
•onfute tho pbilo«opU«r. 



The very sun Its grapes were ripenet, 
under. 
Drink light and juice together, and 
each fine.' — 
'This model of a steamship moves youi 
wonder ? 

You should behold it crushing dowi, 
the brine. 

Like a blind Jove who feels his wa]- 
with thunder.' — 
' Here's sculpture ! Ah, ive live too 
Why not throw 
Our life into our marbles ! Art ha 
place 
For other artists after Angelo.' 
' I tried to paint out here a natural face— 
For nature includes Raffael, as wft 
knowf 
Not Raffael nature. Will it help m^; 
case ?'— 
' Methinks you will not match thisi 
steel of ours !' — ' 

' Nor you this porcelain I One mighf 
dream the clay 
Retained in it the larvae of th< 
flowers. 
They bud so, round the cup, the old' 
spring way.' — 
' Nor you these carven wood.>, when< 
birds in bowers 
With twisting snakes and climbing cut 
pids, play.' 



O Magi of the east and of the west. 
Your incense, gold, and myrrh ar«i 
. excellent. — 
What gifts for Christ, then, bring y«) 
with the rest ? 
Your hands have worked well. Is you;, 
courage spent 
In handwork only ? Have you nothinf 
best. 
Which generous souls may perfect am. 
present. 
And He shall thank the givers for 
No light 
Of teaching, liberal nations, for the poor 
Who sit in darkness when it is -^ 
night ? 

No cure for wicked children t Christ 
— no cure I 



CAS A CUIDI WINDOWS. 



297 



No help for women sobbing out of 
sight 
Because men made the laws ? No 
brothel-lure 
Burnt out by popular lightnings ? — 
Hast thou found 
No remedy, my England, for such woes ? 
No outlet, Austria, for the scourged 
and bound, 
No entrance for the exiled ? No re- 
pose, 
Russia, for knouted Poles worked 
luiderground. 
And gentle ladies bleached among the 
snows ? — 
No mercy for the slave, America ? — 
No hope for Rome, free France, chival- 
ric France? — 
Alas, great nations have great shames, 
I say. 
' No pity, O world, no tender utterance 
Of benediction, and prayers stretched 
this way 
_ For poor Italia baffled by mischance? — 
O gracious nations, give some car to 
, me ! 

You all go to your Fair, and I am one 

Who at the roadside of humanity 
'Eeseech your alms, — God's justice to be 
done. 
So, prosper ! 

XXII. 

In the name of Italy, 
Meantime, her patriot dead have beni- 
zon ! 
They only have done well ; and what 
they did 
Being perfect, it shall triumph. Let 
them slumber 
No king of Egypt in a pyramid 
Is safer from oblivion, though he num- 
ber 
Full seventy cerements for a coverlid. 
These Dead be seeds of life, and shall 
encumber 
The sad heart of the land until it 
loose 
The clammy clods and let out the spring- 
growth 
In beatific green through every bruise. 
The tyrant should take heed to what he 
doth. 



Since every victim-carrion turns to 
use. 
And drives a chariot, like a god made 
wroth. 
Against each piled injustice. Ay, 
the least 
Dead for Italia, not in vain has died. 
Though many vainly, ere life's strug- 
gle ceased. 
To mad dissimilar ends have swerved 
aside. 
Each grave her nationality has pierced 
By its own noble breadth, and fortified. 
And pinned it deeper to the soil. For- 
lorn 
Of thanks, be, therefore, no one of these 



graves 



Not hers, — who, at her husband's side, 
in scorn. 
Outfaced the whistling shot and hissing 
waves. 
Until she felt her little babe unborn 
Recoil, within her, from the vioient 
staves 
And bloodhounds of the world : at 
which, her life 
Dropt inward from her eyes and follow- 
ed it 
Beyond the hunters. Garibaldi'r.wife 
And child died so. And noNV, cne sea- 
weeds fit 
Her body like a proper shjoud and 
coif. 
And murmurously the ebbing waters grit 
The little pebbles whiie »,h^ V.a in- 
terred 
In the sea-sand. Perhaps, ere dying 
thus. 
She looked up in his face which never 
stirred 
From its clenched anguish, as to make 
excuse 
For leaving him for his, if so she t'red. 
Well he remembers that she coulu not 
choose. 
A memorable grave ! Another is 
At Genoa. There a king may fitly lie. 
Who bursting that heroic heart of his 
At lost Novara, that he could not die. 
Though thrice into the cannon's eyes 
for this 
He plunged his shuddering steed, and 
felt the sky 



;i98 



CASA GUIDI WINDOWS. 



Reel back between the fire-shocks ;— 
stripped away 
The ancestral ermine ere the smoke had 
cleared, 
And naked to the soul, that none 
might say 
His kingship covered what was base and 
bleared 
With treason, went out straight, an 
exile, yea. 
An exiled patriot ! Let him be revered. 

xxin. 
Yea, verily, Charles Albert has died 
well : 
And if he lived not all so, as one spoke. 
The sm pass softly with the passing 
bell. 
For he was shriven, I think, in cannon 
smoke. 
And taking off his crown, made visible 
A hero's forehead. Shaking Austria's 
yoke 
He shattered his own hand and heart. 
' So best,' 
His last words were upon his lonely bed, 
' I do not end like popes and dukes at 
least — 
Thank God for it.' And now that he is 
dead, 
Admitting it is proved and manifest 
That he was worthy, with a discrowned 
head. 
To measure heights with patriots, let 
them stand 
Beside the man in his Oporto shroud. 
And each vouchsafe to take him by 
the hand. 
And kiss him on the cheek, and say 
aloud. 
Thou, too, hast suffered for our native 
land! 
• My brother, thou art one of us. Be 
proud.' 

XXIV. 

Still, graves, when Italy is talked 
upon ! 
Still, still, the patriot's tomb, the stran- 
ger's hate. 
Still Niobe ! still fainting in the sim 
By whose most dazzling arrows violate 
Her beauteous offspring perished ! 
Has she won 



Nothing but garlands for the graves 
from Fate ? 
Nothing but death-songs ?— Yet, be i^ 
understood, j 

Life throbs in noble Piedmont 1 while 
the feet 
Of Rome's clay image, dabbled soft ' 
in blood. 
Grow fat with dissolution, and, as meet, 
Will soon be shovelled off like othei 
mud. 
To leave the passage free in church and 
street. 
And I, who first took hope up in this 
song. 
Because a child was smgmg one.... be- 
hold. 
The hope and omen were not, haply, 
wrong ! 
Poets are soothsayers still, like those of 
old 
Who studied flights of doves,— and 
creatures young 
And tender, mighty meanings, may un- 
fold. 



The sun strikes through the windows, 
up the floor : 
Stand out in it, my own young Floren- 
tine, 
Not two years old, and let me see 
thee more ! 
It grows along thy amber curls to .shine 
Brighter than elsewhere. Now, look ' 
straight before. 
And fix thy brave blue English eyes on 
mine. 
And from thy soul, which fronts the 
future so. 
With imabashed and unabated gaze. 
Teach me to hope for, what the An- 
gels know. 
When they smile clear as thou dost. 
Down God's ways. 
With just alighted feet between the 
snow 
And snowdrops, where a little lamb 
may gaze 
Thou hast no fear, my lamb, about 
the road. 
Albeit in our vain-glory we assume 
That, less than we have, thou hast 
learnt of God. 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 



«99 



Stand out, my blue-eyed prophet ! — 
thou, to whom 
The earliest world-day hght that ever 
flowed. 
Through Casa Guidi windows, chanced 
to come ! 
Now shake the glittering nimbus of 
thy hair. 
And be God's witness — that the ele- 
mental 
New springs of life are gushing 
everywhere 
To cleanse the water courses, and pre- 
vent all 
Concrete obstructions which infest the 
air I 
— That earth's alive, and gentle or un- 
gentle 
Motions within her, signify but 
growth : 
The ground swells greenest o'er the la- 
bouring moles. 
Howe'er the uneasy world is vexed 
and wroth, 
Young children, lifted high on parent 
souls. 
Look round them with a smile upon 
the mouth. 
And take for music every bell that 
tolls. 
Who said we should be better if like 
these ? 
And we sit murmuring for the future 
though 
Posterity is smiling on our knees. 
Convicting us of folly ? Let us go — 
We will trust God. The blank inter- 
stices 
Men take for ruins. He will build into 
With pillared marbles rare, or knit 
across 
With generous arches, till the fane's 
complete. 
This world has no perdition, if some 
loss. 



Such cheer I gather from thy smiling 
Sweet ! 
The self same cherub faces which 
emboss 

The Vail, lean inward to the Mercy- 
scat. 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 

/a' o.ufAttfTii-, rcKva. MedEA. 

Do ye hear the children weeping:, O 
my brothers. 
Ere the sorrow comes witli years ? 
They are leaning their young heads 
against their mothcis. 
And t/iai cannot stop their t«^rs. 
The young iambs are bleating xn the 
meadows : 
The young birds arc chirping in their 
nest ; 
The young fawns are playing with the 
shadows ; 
The young flowers are blowing to- 
ward the west — 
But the young, young children, O my 
brothers. 
They are weeping bitterly ! 
They arc weeping in the playtime of 
the others, 
In the country of the free. 

Do you question the young children in 
the sorrow, 
Why their tears are falling' so ? 
The old man may weep for his to- 
morrow 
Which is lost in Long Ago — 
The old tree is leafless in the forest — 

The old year is ending in the frost — 
The old wound, if stricken, is the 
sorest — 
The old hope is hardest to be lost : 
But the young, young children, O my 
brothers, 
Do you ask them why they stand 
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their 
mothers. 
In our happy Fatherland ? 

They look up with their pale and 
sunken faces, 
And their looks are sad to see, 
For the man's hoary anguish draws 
and presses 
Down the cheeks of infancy — 
' Your old earth,' they say, ' is very 
dreary ; 
Our young feet,' they say, ' are very 
weak ! 



3CO 



THE CRY OF THE CHHDREN. 



Few paces have we taken, yet are 
weary — 
Om grave-rest is very far to seek : 
Ask the aged why they weep, and not 
the children. 
For the outside earth is cold, 
And we young ones stand without, in 
our bewildering. 
And the graves are for the old : 

' Triie,' say the children, ' it may hap- 
pen 
That we die before our time : 
Little Alice died last year — her grave 
is shapen 
Like a snowball, in the rime. 
We looked into the pit prepared to take 
her— 
Was no room for any work in the 
close clay : 
From the sleep wherein she lieth none 
will wake her 
Crying, * Get up, little Alice ! it is 
day.' 
Jf you listen by that grave, in sun and 
shower. 
With your ear down, little Alice 
never cries 1 
Could we see her face, be sure we 
.should not know her. 
For the smile has time for growing in 
her eyes. 
And merry go her moments, lulled and 
stilled in 
The shroud by the kirk-chime ! 
It is good when it happens,' say the chil- 
dren, 
' That we die before our time !' 
Al.-u;, alas, the children I they are seek- 
ing 
Death in life as best to have ! 
They are binding up their hearts away 
from breaking. 
With a cerement from the grave. 
Go out, children, from the mine and 
from the city — 
Smg out, children, as the little 
thrushes do — 
riuck your handfuls of the meadow- 
cowslips pretty — 
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers 
let them through 1 
liut they answer, ' Are your cowslips of 
the meadows 



Like our weeds anear the mine 1 
Leave us quiet m the dark of the coal- 
shadows, 
From your pleasures fair and fine ! 

'For oh,' say the children, 'we are 
weary. 
And we cannot run or leap — 
If we cared for any meadows, it were 
merely 
To drop down in them and sleep. 
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooi>- 
ing— 
We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; 
And, underneath our heavy eyelids 
drooping. 
The reddest flower would look as 
pale as snow. 
For, all day, we drag our burden tiring. 
Through the coal-dark miderground. 
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron 
In the factories, round and round. 

' For, all day, the wheels are droning, 
turning, — 
Their wind comes in our faces, — 
Till our hearts turn, — our heads, with 
pulses burning, 
And the walls turn in their places — 
Turns the sky in the high window blank 
and reeling — 
Turns the long light that drops 
adown the wall — 
Turn the black flies that crawl along the 
ceiling — 
All are turning, all the day, and we 
with all 1 
And all day the iron wheels are dron- 
ing -. 
And sometimes we could pray, 
' O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad 
moaning.) 
' Stop ! be silent for to-day V 

Ay 1 be silent ! Let them hear each 
other breathing 
For a moment, mouth to naouth — 
Let them touch each other's hands, in :i 
fresh wreathing 
Of their tender human youth ! 
Let them feel that this cold metallic 
motion 
Is not all the life God fashions or 
reveals — 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN: 



301 



Let them prove their nving souls against 
the notion 
That they live in you, or under you, 
O wheels !— 
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward. 

Grinding life down from its mark ; 
And the children's souls, which God is 
calling sunward. 
Spin on blindly in the dark. 

Now tell the poor young children, O 
my brothers, 
To look up to Him and pray — 
So fhe blessed One who blesseth all the 
others. 
Will bless them another day. 
They answer, ' Who is God that He 
should hear us, 
While the rushing of the iron wheels 
is stirred ? 
When we sob aloud, the human crea- 
tures near us 
Pass by, hearing not, or answer not 
a word ! 
And lue hear not (for the wheels in their 
resounding) 
Strangers speaking at the door : 
Is it likely God, with angels singing 
round Him, 

Hears Our weeping any more ? 
*Two words, indeed, of praying we re- 
member ; 
And at midnight's hour of harm, 
•Our Father,' looking upward in the 
chamber, 
We say softly for a charm.* 
We know no other words, except ' Our 
Father,' 
And we think that, in some pause 
of angel's song, 
God may pluck them with the silence 
sweet to gather, 
And hold both within His right hand 
which is strong. 
'Our Father!' If He heard us. He 
would surely 

* A fact rendered i):itlielifally historical by 
51;-. Home's Jtepoit of his* co;miiiHsion. Tlie 
uivnio of tlie poet of " Orion " auvl " Cosmo de' 
ileilici " has, however, a chanpro of associa- 
tions, and comes in time to remind me (witli 
otl>eriiol)Io instances) that we h.ive some no- 
ble poetic heat still in our lil(!rat\i:e, — thoic,-li 
open to the reproach, on certain pohitH, of be- 
ing somewhot gelid in our humanity. 



(For they call him good and mild) 
Answer, smiling down the steep world 
very purely, 
' Come and rest with me, my child.' 

' But, no I' say the children, weeping 
faster, 
' He is speechless as a stone ; 
And they tell us, of His image is the 
master 
Who commands us to work on. 
' Go to !' say the children — 'Up in Hea- 
ven, 
Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds arc 
all we find : 
Do not mock us ; grief has made us un- 
believing, — 
We look up for God, but tears have 
made us blind.' 
Do you hear the children weeping and 
disproving, 
O my brothers, what ye preach ? 
For God's possible is taught by His 
world's loving — 
And the children doubt of each. 

And well may the children weep before 
you ; 
They are weary ere they run ; 
They have never seen the sunshine, nor 
the glory 
Which is brighter than the sun : 
They know the grief of man, without 
his wisdom ; 
They sink in man's despair, without 
its calm — 
Arc slaves, without the liberty in Chris- 
tendom, 
Are martyrs, by the pang without 
the palm, — 
Are worn as if with age, yet unretriev- 
Ingly 
The harvest of its memories cannot 
reap, — 
Are orphans of the earthly love and 
heavenly : 
Let them weep ! let them weep ! 
They look up, with their pale and sunk- 
en faces. 
And their look Is dread to see. 
For they mind you of their angels in 
high places. 
With eyes turned on Deity ; — 
' How long,' they say, ' how long, O 
cruel nation. 



3oa 



NAPOLEON III. IN ITAL V. 



Will you stand, to move the world, 
on a child's heart, — 
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpi- 
tation, 
And tread onward to your throne 
amid the mart 1 



Our blood splashes upward, O gol>.l- 
heaper. 
And your purple shows your path ; 
But the child's sob in the silence curses : 
deeper 
Than the strong man in his wrath !' 



NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY. 



[These poems were written under the pressure of the events they Indicate, after a residence : 
In Italy of so many yeiiis, that the present triiunph of great principles is heightened to the 
writer's feelings by tlie ilisastious issue of the last movement, witnessed from " Casa Guidi 
windows " in 1849. Yet, if the verses should appear toKnglish readers too pungently rendered 
to admit of a patriotic respect to the English sense of things, 1 will not excuse myself on uncli 
grounds, nor on the ground of my attachment to the Italian people, and my admiration of their 
heroic constancy and union. What I liave written has simply been written because 1 love truth 
and justice quaiid nieine, " more than Plato " and Plato's country, more than Dante and Daute'a 
country, more even than bhakespeate and Shakespeare's country. 

And if patriotism means the Uattery of one's nation in every case, then the ]>atriot, take it as 
you please, is merely a couitier, which I am not, though I have written •' Napoleon Jll. lu Italy." 
It is time to limit the signihcanco oi certain terms, or to enlarge the i<i;;nihcance of certaiu 
things. Nationality is excellent in its place ; and the Instinct of selflove is the r(«< of a man, 
which will develop into sacriHcial virtues. But all the virtues are means and uses ; and, if w« 
hinder their tendency to growth and expansion, we both destroy them tis virtues, and degrade 
them to that rankest species of corruption reserved for the most noble organizations. For in- 
stance, non-intervention in the affairs of neighboring states is a high |>o!itical virtue ; but non- 
intervention does not mean, passing by on the ether side when your neighbor talKs umiaig 
thieves, — or Phariseeism would recover it from Christianity, Freedom itself is virtue, as well 
as privilege; but iVeedoni of the seas docs not mean piracy, nor freedom of the land brigandn^-e ; 
nor freedom of the senate, freedom to cudgel a dissident member, nor freedom of the press, free- 
dom tu calumniate and lie. So, if patriotism be a virtue indeed, it cannot mean an exclusive 
devotion to one's country's interest. — for that is only another fomi of devotion to ]>erBonal In- 
terests, of family interests or provincial interests, all of which, If not driven pa.st themselves, 
are vulgar and immoral objects. Let us put away the little Pedlingtonism unworthy of a great 
nation, and too prevalent among us. If tire man who does not look beyond this natural life is 
of a somewhat narrow order, what must be the man who does not look beyond his own frontier 
or his own sea? 

I confess that I dream of the day when an English statesman shall arise with a heart too large 
for Kngland, having courage, in the face of his countrymen, to assert of Some suggestive policy, 
— " This is good lor your trade ; this is necessary toi- your domination ; but it will vex a people 
hard by ; it will hurt a people farther off; it will profit nothing to the general Jiumanity ; there- 
fore, away with it ! — it is not lor you or for me." When a British minister dares to speak so, 
and when a British public ajjplauds him speaking, then shall the nation be so glorious, that her 
praise, instead of explodiugfrom within, from loud civic mouths, shall come to her from with- 
out, as all worthy praise must, from the alliances she has fostered, and from tlie populations 
•he has saved. 

And poets, who wi1te of the events of that time, shall not need to justify themselves in 
prefaces, lor ever so little jarring of the national sentiment Imputable to their rhymes, 

KoMK, Fcbruanj, 1S60,] 



E.MPEROR, Emperor ! 
From the centre to the shore. 
From the Seine back to the Rhine, 
Stood eight millions up and swore. 
By their manhood's right divine 
So to elect and legislate, 



This man should renew the line 
Broken in a strain of fate 
And leagued kings at Waterloo, 
When the people's hands let £0. 

Emperor 

Evermore. 



NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY. 



303 



With a universal shout 
They took the old regalia out 
From an open grave that day ; 
■From a grave tint would not close. 
Where the first Napoleon lay 
Expectant, in repose, 
, As still as Merlin, with his conquering 
!| face, 

/ Turned up in its unquenchable appeal 
To men and heroes of the advancing 
race. 
Prepared to set the seal 
Of what has been on what shall be. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 



The thinkers stood aside 
To let the nation act. 
Some hated the new constituted fact 
Of empire, as pride treading on their 

pride. 
Some quailed, lest what was poisonous 

in the past 
Should graft itself in that Druidic bough 
On this green now. 
Some cursed, because at last 
The open heavens to which they had 

look'd in vain 
For many a golden fall of marvellous 
rain 
Were closed in brass ; and some 
Wept on because a gone thing could 

not come ; 
And some were silent, doubting all things 

for 
That popular conviction — evermore 
Emperor. 



That day I did not hate 

Nor doubt, nor quail, nor curse. 

I, reverencing tlie people, did not bate 

My reverence of their deed and oraole. 

Nor vainly prate 

Of better and of worse 
Against the great conclusion of their will. 

And yet, O voice and verse. 
Which God set in me to acclaim and 

sing 
Conviction, exaltation, aspiration. 
We gave no music to the patent thing. 



Nor spared a lujly rhythm to throb and 
swim 
About the name of liim 
Translated to the sphere of domination 
I'.y democratic passion ! 
1 was not used, at least. 
Nor can be, now or then, 
To stroke the ermine beast 
On any kind of throne, 
(Though builded by a nation for iis 

own,) 
And swell the surging choir for kings of 
men — 
' Emperor 
Evermore.' 



But now. Napoleon, now 
That, leaving far behind the purple 

throng 
Of vulgar monarchs, thou 
Tread'st higher in thy deed 
Than stair of throne can lead 
To help m the hour of wrong 
The broken hearts of nations to be 

strong, — 
Now, lifted as thou art 
To the level of pure song. 
We stand to meet thee on these Alpine 

snows ! 
And while the palpitating peaks break 

out 
Ecstatic from somnambular repose 
With answers to the presence and the 

shout. 
We, poets of the people, who take part 
With elemental justice, natural right. 
Join in our echoes also, nor refrain. 
Wc meet thee, O Napoleon, at this 

height 
At last, and find thee great enough to 

praise. 
Receive the poet's chrism, which smells 

beyond 
The priest's, and pass thy ways ; — 
An English poet warns thee to maintain 
God's word, not England's : — let His 

truth be true 
And all men liars ! with His truth re- 
spond 
To all men's lie. Exalt the sword and 

smite 
On that long anvil of the Apennlne 
Where Austria forged the Italian chain 

in view 



304 



NAPOLEON IN ITALY 



Of seven consenting nations, sparks of 
fine 
Admonitory light. 
Till men'-: eyes wink before convictions 

new. 
Flash in God's justice to the world's 

amaze, 
Sublime Deliverer ! — after many days 
Found worthy of the deed thou art come 
to do — 
Emperor 
Evermore. 



But Italy, my Italy 

Can it last, this gleam ? 

Can she live and be strong. 

Or is it another dream 

Like the rest we have dreamed so long ? 

And shall it, must it be. 
That after the battle-cloud has broken 
She will die off again 
Like the rain. 
Or like a poet's song 
Sung of her, sad at the end 
Because lier name is Italy- 
Die and count no friend ? 
It is true — may it be spoken. 
That she who has lain so still. 
With a wound in her breast. 
And a flower in her hand. 
And a gravestone under her head. 
While every nation at will 
Beside her has dared to stand 
And flout her with pity and scorn. 
Saying, 'She is at rest. 
She is fair, shejs dead. 
And, leaving room in her stead 
To Us who are later born. 
This is certainly best !' 
Saying, ' Alas, she is fair. 
Very fair, but dead. 
And so we have room for the race.' 
— Can it be true, be true. 
That she lives anew ? 
That she rises up at the shout of licr sons. 
At the trumpet of Franco, 
And lives anew ? — is it true 
That she has not moved ia a trance. 
As in Forty-eight ? 

When her eyes were troubled with blood 
Till she knew not friend from foe. 
Till her hand was caught in a strait 
Of her cerement and bafiied so 



From doing the deed she would ; 

And her weak foot stumbled across 

The grave of a king. 

And down she dropt at heavy loss. 

And we gloomily covered her face and* 

said, 
' We have dreamed the thing ; 
She is not alive, but dead.' 



Now, shall wc s.ay 

Our Italy lives indeed ? 

And if it were not for the beat and bray 

Of drum and trump of martial men. 

Should we feel the imderground heave 

and strain. 
Where heroes left their dust as a seed 

Sure to emerge one day ? 
And if it were not for the rhythmic march 
Of France and Piedmont's double hosts. 

Should we hear the ghosts 
Thrill through ruined aisle and arch. 
Throb along the frescoed wall. 
Whisper an oath by that divine 
They left in picture, book and stone 
That Italy is not dead at all ? 
Ay, if it were not for the tears in our eyes 
These tears of a sudden passionate joy 

Should we see her arise 
From the place were the wicked are 
overthrown, 

Italy, Italy 1 loosed at length 

From the tyrant's thrall. 
Pale and calm in her strength ? 
Pale as the silver cross of Savoy 
When the hand that bears the flag is 

brave, 
And not a breath is stirring, save 

What is blown 
Over the war-trump's lip of brass. 
Ere Garibaldi forces the pa'is I 



Ay, it is so, even so. 

Ay, and it shall be so. 
Each broken stone that long ago 
She flung behind her as she went 
In discouragement and bewilderment 
Through the cairns of Time, and missed 
her way 

Between to-day and yesterday. 

Up springs a living man. 
And each man stands with liis face in 
the light 



NAPOLEON IN ITALY. 



30s 



Of Ills own drawn sword. 
Ready to do what a hero can. 
Wall to sap, or river to ford. 
Cannon to front, or foe to pursue, 
Still ready to do, and sworn to be true, 

As a man and patriot can, 
Piedmontese, Neapolitan. 
Lombard, Tuscan, Romagnole, 
Each man's body liaving a soul, — 
Count how many they stand. 
All of them sons of the land. 
Every live man there 
Allied to a dead man below. 
And the deadest with blood to spare 
'J'o quicken a living hand 
In case it should ever be slow. 
Count how many they come 
To beat the Piedmont's drum. 
With faces keener and grayer 
Than swords of the Austrian slayer. 
All set against the foe. 
'Emperor 
Evermore.* 



Out of the dust where they ground 

them. 
Out of the holes where they dogged 

them. 
Out of the hulks where they wound 

them 
In iron, tortured and flogged them ; 
Out of the streets where they chased 

them. 
Taxed them and then bayoneted 

them, — 
Out of the homes, where they spied on 

them, 
(Using their daughters and wives,) 
Out of the church where they fretted 

them. 
Rotted their souls and debased them. 
Trained them to answer with knives, 
Then cursed them all at their 

prayers ! — 
Out of cold land;, not theirs. 
Where they exiled them, starved them, 

lied on thenf ; 
Back they come like a wind, in vain 
Cramped up in the hills, that roars its 

road 
The stronger into the open plain ; 
Or like a fire that bums the hotter 
And longer for the crust of cinder. 



Serving better the ends of the plotter ; 
Or like a restrained word of God, 
Fulfilling itself by what seems to hinder 

' Emperor 

Evermore.' 



Shout for France and Savoy ! 
Shout for the helper and doer. 
Shout for the good sword's ring. 
Shout for the thought still truer. 
Shout for the spirits at large 
Who passed for the dead this spring. 
Whose living glory is sure. 
Shout for France and Savoy ! 
Shout for the council and charge ! 
Shout for the head of Cavour ; 
And shout for the heart of a King 
That's grent with a nation's joy. 
Shout for France and Savoy ! 



Take up the child, MacMahon, though 

Thy hand be red 

From Magenta's dead, 

And riding on, in front of the troop, 

In the dust of the whirlwind of war 
Through the gate of the city of Milan, 

stoop 
And take up the child to thy saddle- 
bow. 
Nor fear the touch as soft as a flower 

Of his smile as clear as a star ! 
Thou hast a right to the child, we say. 
Since the women are weeping for joy 

as those 
Who, by thy help and from this day. 

Shall be happy mothers indeed. 
They are raining flowers from terrace 
and roof : 
Take up the flower iu the child. 
While the shout goes up of a nation 
freed 
And heroically self-reconciled. 
Till the snow on that peaked Alp aloof 
Starts, as feeling God's finger anew. 
And all those cold white marble fires 
Of mounting saints on the Duomo spires 
Flicker against the 'Blue. 
' Emperor 
Evermore.' 

XII. 
Ay, it is He, 
Who rides at the King's right hand I 



3o6 



NAPOLEON IN ITALY. 



Leave room for his horse and draw to 

the side. 
Nor press too near in-the ecstasy 
Of a newly delivered impassioned land. 
He is moved, you see. 
He who has done it all. 
They call it a cold stern face ; 

But this is Italy 
Who rises up to her place ! — 
For this he fought in his youth. 
Of this he dreamed in the past ; 
The lines of the resolute mouth 
Tremble a little at last. 
Cry, he has done it all I 
' Emperor 
Evermore.' 



It is not strange that he did it. 
Though the deed may seem to strain 
To the wonderful, unpermitted. 
For such as lead and reign. 
But he is strange, this man : 
The people's instinct found him 
(A wind in the dark that ran 
Through a chink where was no door). 
And elected him and crowned him 

Emperor 

Evermore. 

XIV. 

Autocrat! let them scoff. 

Who fail to comprehend 
That a ruler incarnate of 

The people must transcend 
All common king-born kings. 
These subterranean springs 
A sudden outlet winning. 
Have special virtues to spend. 
The people's blood through him. 
Dilates from head to foot. 
Creates him absolute. 
And from this great beginning 
Evokes a greater end 
To justify and renew him — 

Emperor 

Evermore 



W^hat ! did any maintain 

That God or the people (think !) 

Could make a marvel in vain ? — 



Out of the water-jar there. 

Draw wine that none could drink ? 

Is this a man like the rest. 

This miracle made unaware 

By a rapture of popular air. 

And caught to the place that was best? 

You think he could barter and cheat 

As vulgar diplomats use, 

With the people's heart in his breast? 

Prate a lie into shape 

Lest truth should cumber the road ; 

Play at the fast and loose 

Till the world is strangled with tape ; 

Maim the soul's complete 

To fit the hole of a toad ; 

And filch the dogman's meat 

To feed the offspring of God ? 



Nay, but he, this wonder. 

He cannot palter nor prate. 

Though many around him and under. 

With intellects trained to the curve. 

Distrust him in spirit and nerve 

Because his meaning is straight. 

Measure him ere he depart 

With those who have governed and led ; 

Larger so much by the heart. 

Larger so much by the head. 

Emperor 

Evermore. 



He holds that, consenting or dissident. 
Nations must move with the time ; 

As-sumes that (!rime with a precedent 
Doubles the guilt of the crime : 

— Denies that a slaver's bond 
Or a treaty signed by knaves, 

{Quorum 7iiagna pars and beyond 

Was one of xm honest name) 

Gives an inexpugnable claim 

I'o abolishing men into slaves. 

Emperor j 



Evermore. 



He will not swagger nor boast 
Of hiscountry's meeds, in a tone 

Missuiting a great man most 

If such should speak of his own : 

Nor will he act, on her side. 



THE DANCE. 



Fitm motives baser, indeed, 
Than a man of a noble pride 

Can avow for himself at need ; 
Never, for lucre or laurels. 

Or custom, though such should be 
rife. 
Adapting the smaller morals 

To measure the larger life. 
He, though the merchants persuade, 

And the soldiers are eager for strife. 
Finds not his country in quarrels 

Only to find her in trade, — 
While still he accords her such honor 

As never to flinch for her sake 
Where men put service upon her. 

Found heavy to undertake 
And scarcely like to be paid : 

Believing a nation may act 
Unselfishly — shiver a lance 
(As the least of her sons may, in fact) 

And not for a cause of finance. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 



Great is he 
Who uses his greatness for all. 
His name shall stand perpetually 

As a name to applaud and cherish. 
Not only within the civic wall 
For the loj'al, but also without 

For the generous and free. 

Just is he. 
Who is just for the popular due 

As well as the private debt. 
The praise of nations ready to perish 

Fall on him, — crown him in view 
Of tyrants caught in the net. 
And statesmen dizzy with fear and 

doubt ! 
And though, because they are many. 

And he is merely one. 
And nations selfish and cruel 
Heap up the inquisitor's fuel 
To kill the body of high intents. 
And burn great deeds from their place. 
Till this, the greatest of any. 
May seem imperfectly done ; 
Courage, whoever circumvents ! 
Courage, courage, whoever is base I 
The soul of a high intent, be it known. 
Can die no more than any soul 



Which God keeps by him under the 

throne ; 
And this, at whatever interim. 
Shall live, and be consummated 
In the being of deeds made whole. 
Courage, courage ! happy is he. 
Of whom (himself among the dead 
And silent,) this word shall be said ; 
— That he might have had the world 

with him. 
But chose to side with suffering men. 
And had the world against him when 
He came to deliver Italy. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 



THE DANCE. 



You remember down at Florence our 
Cascine, 
Where the people on the feast-days 
walk and drive. 
And through the trees, long-drawn in 
many a green way, 
O'er roofing hum and murmur like a 

hive. 
The rivers and mountains look alive ? 



You remember the piazzone there, the 

stand-place 
Of carriages a-brim with Florence 

Beauties, 
Who lean and melt to music as the band 

plays. 
Or smile and chat with some one who 

afoot is. 
Or on horseback, in observance of 

male duties? 



'Tis so pretty. In the afternoons of sum- 
mer. 
So many gracious faces brought to- 
gether ! 

Call it rout, or call it concert, they h.avc 
come here. 



3o8 



THE DANCE. 



Ill the floating of the fan and of the 

feather, 
To reciprocate with beauty the fine 
weather. 



While the flower-girls offer nosegays 
(because they too 
Go with other sweets) at every car- 
riage-door ; 
Here, by shake of a white finger, signed 
away to 
Some next buyer, who sits buying 

score on score. 
Piling roses upon roses evermore. 



And last season, when the French camp 
had its station 

In the meadow -ground, things quick- 
ened and grew gayer 
Through the mingling of the liberating 
nation 

With this people ; groups of French- 
men everywhere. 

Strolling, gazing, judging lightly, . . 
'who was fair.' 



Then the noblest lady present took upon 
her 

To speak nobly from her carriage for 
the rest ; 
' Pray these officers from France to do 
us honor 

By dancing with us .straightway.' — 
The request 

Was gravely apprehended as ad- 
dressed. 



And the men of France, bareheaded, 
bowing lowly, 
Led out each a proud signora to the 
space 
\Vhich the startled crowd had rounded 
for them — slowly. 
Just a touch of still emotion in his 

face, 
Not presuming, through the symbol, 
on the grace. 



There was silence in the people : some : 

lips trembled. 
But none jested. Broke the music at : 

a glance : 
And the daughters of our princes, thus 

assembled. 
Stepped the measure with the gallant 

sons of France. 
Hush! it might have been .1 Mass, 

and not a dance. 



And they danced there till the blue that 
overskied us 

Swooned with passion, tliough the 
footing seemed sedate ; 
And the mountains, heaving mighty 
hearts beside us. 

Sighed a rapture in a shadow, to dil- 
ate. 

And touched the holy stone where 
Dante sate. 



Then the son.s* of France, bareheaded, 
lowly bowing. 

Led the ladies back where kinsmen of 
the south 
Stood, received them ; — till, with burst 
of overflowing 

Feeling . . . husbands, brothers, Flor- 
ence's male youth. 

Turned, and kissed the martial stran- 
gers mouth to mouth. 



And a cry went up, a cry from all that 

people ! 
— You have heard a people cheering 

you suppose. 
For the Member, mayor . . . with chorus 

from the steeple? 
This was different : scarce as loutl 

perhaps, (who knows ?) 
For we saw wet eyes around us ere 

the close. 



And we felt as if a nation, too long born« 
in 
By hard wrongers, comprehending iu 
such attitude 



A TALE OF VILLA FRANCA. 



30; 



That God had spoken somewhere since 

the morning, 
That men were somehow brothers, by 

no platitude. 
Cried exultant in great wonder and 

free gratitude. 



A TALE OF VILLAFRANCA. 

TOLD IN TUSCANY. 



My little son, my Florentine, 
Sit down beside my knee. 

And I will tell you why the sign 
Of joy which flushed our Italy, 

Has faded since but yesternight ; 

And why your Florence of delight 
1 mourning as you see. 



A great man (who was crowned one day) 

Imagined a great Deed : 
He shaped it out of cloud and clay, 
He touched it finely till the seed 
Possessed the flower : from heart and 

brain 
He fed it with large thoughts humane. 
To help a people's need. 



He brought it out into the sun — 
They blessed it to his face : 

' O great pure Deed, that hast imdone 
So many bad and base ! 

O generous Deed, heroic Deed, 

Come forth, be perfected, succeed. 
Deliver by God's grace.' 



Then sovereigns, statesmen, north ?.nd 
south. 

Rose up in wrath and fear. 
And cried, protesting by one mouth, 

' What monster have we here ? 
A great Deed at this hour of day ? 
A great just Deed — and not for pay ? 

Absurd, — or insincere. 



V. 

' And if sincere, the heavier blow 
In that case we shall bear. 

For where's our blessed " status quo. 
Our holy treaties, where,— 

Our rights to sell a race, or buy. 

Protect and pillage, occupy. 
And civilize despair ?' 



Some muttered that the great De«d 
meant 

A great pretext to sin ; 
And others, the pretext, so lent. 

Was heinous (to begin). 
Volcanic terms of ' great ' and 'just ?' 
Admit such tongues of flame, the crust 

Of time and law falls in. 



A great Deed in this world of ours? 

Unheard of the pretence is : 
It threatens plainly the great powers 

Is fatal in all senses. 
A just deed in the world ? — call out 
The rifles ! be not slack about 

The national defences. 



And many murmured, ' From thissourca 
What red blood must be poured !* 

And some rejoined, ' 'Tis even worse ; 
What red tape is ignored !' 

All cursed the Doer for an evil 

Called here, enlarging on the Devil, — 
There, monkeying the Lord ! 



Some said, it could not be explained, 
Some, could not be excused ; 

And others, ' Leave it unrestrained, 
Gehenna's self .s loosed,' 

And all cried, ' Crush it, maim it, gag it \ 

Set dog-toothed lies to tear it ragj^ed. 
Truncated and traduced !' 



But He stood sad before the sun, 
(The peoples felt their fate). 

'The world is many, — I am one ; 
My great Deed was too great. 



TALE OF VILLA FRANCA. 



God's fruit of justice ripens slow : 
Men's souls are narrow ; let them grow. 
My brothers, we must wait.' 



The tale is ended, child of mine. 
Turned graver at my knee. 

They say your eyes, my Florentine, 
Are English : it may be : 

And yet I've marked as blue a pair 

Following the doves across the square 
At Venice by the sea. 



Ah, child ! ah, child ! I cannot say 
A word more. You conceive 

The reason now, why just to-day 
We see our Florence grieve. 

Ah, child, look up into the sky ! 

In this low world, where great Deec 
die. 
What matter if we live ? 



AN AUGUST VOICE. 



" Una voce augtista." — 

MONITOKK T( 



You'Lt. take back your Grand Duke ? 

I made the treaty upon it. 
Just venture a quiet duke, 

Dair Ongaro write him a sonnet ; 
Ricasoli gently explain 

Some need of the constitution : 
He'll swear to it over again. 

Providing an ' easy solution.' 
You'll call back the Grand Duke. 



You'll take back your Grand Duke ? 

I promised the Emperor Francis 
To argue the case by his book. 

And ask you to meet his advances. 
The ducal cause, we know, 

(Whether you or he be the wronger) 
Has very strong points ; — although 

Your bayonets there have stronger. 
You'll call backthe Grand Duke. 



You'll take back your Grand Duke ? 

He is not pure altogether. 
For instance, the oath which he took 

(In the Forty -eight rough weather) 
He'd 'nail your flac to his mast,' 

Then softly scuttled the boat you 
Hoped to escape in at last. 

And both by a ' Proprio motu.' 
You'll call back the Grand Duke. 



You'll take back your Grand Duke ? 

The scheme meets nothing to shock it 
In this smart letter, look. 

We found in Radetsky's pocket; 
Where his Highness in sprightly style 

Of the flower of his Tuscans wrote, 
' These heads be the hottest in file ; 

Pray shoot them the quickest.' Quote, 
And call back the Grand Duke. 



You'll take back j'our Grand Duke? 

There are some things to object to. 
He cheated, betrayed, and forsook. 

Then called in the foe to protect you. 
He taxed you for wines and for meats 

Throughout that eight years' pastime 
Of Austria's drum in yours streets — 

Of course you remember the last time 
You called back your Grand Duke. 



You'll take back the Grand Duke \ 

It is not race he is poor in. 
Although he never could brook 

The patriot cousin at Turin. 
His love of kin you discern. 

By his hate of your flag and me- 
So decidedly apt to turn 

All colors at sight of the Three." 
You'll call back the Grand Duke. 



You'll take back your Grand Duke ? 
'I'was weak that he fled from tl 
Pitti. 
But consider how little he shook 



' The Italian tiicolor : red, B'"een, and wlilto. 



CHRISTMAS GIFTS. 



At thought of bombarding your city ! 
And, balancing that with this, 

Tlie Christian rule is plain for us ; 
. , Or the Holy Father's Swiss 

Have shot his Perugians in vain for us. 
Vou'll call back the Grand Duke. 



Pray take back your Grand Duke. 

— I, too, have suffered persuasion. 
All Europe, raven and rook. 

Screeched at me armed for your na- 
tion. 
Your cause in any heart struck spurs ; 

I swept such warnings aside for you. 
My very child's eyes, and Hers, 

Grew like my brother's who died for 
you. 
You'll call back the Grand Duke ? 



You'll take back your Grand Duke ? 

My French fought nobly with rea- 
son — 
Left many a Lombardy nook 

Red as with wine out of season. 
Little we grudged what was done there. 

Paid freelv your ransom of blood 
Our heroes stark in the sun there. 

We would not recall if we could. 
You'll call back the Grand Duke ? 



You'll take back your Grand Duke ? 

His son rode fast as he got off 
That day on the enemy's hook. 

When / had an epaulette shot off. 
Though splashed (as I saw him afar, no. 

Near) by those ghastly rains. 
The mark, when you've washed him in 
Amo, 

Will scarcely be larger than Cain's. 
You'll call back the Grand Duke. 



You'll take back your Grand Duke ? 

'Twill be so simple, quite beautiful : 
The shepherd recovers his crook, 

. If you should be sheep and dutiful. 
I spoke a word worth chalking 

On Milan's wall — but stay. 
Here's Poniatowsky talking, — 

You'll listen to ////// to-d.iy. 
And call back the Grand Duke. 



You'll take back your Grand Duke ? 

Observe, there's no one to force it, — 
Unless the Madonna, St. Luke 

Drew for you. choose to endorse it. 
I charge you by St. Martino 

And protiigies quickened by wrong. 
Remember your dead on Ticino ; 

Be worthy, he constant, be strong, 
—Bah !— call back the Grand Duke ! 1 



CHRISTMAS GIFTS. 

Gregory Mazianzhn. 



The Pope on Christmas day 

Sits in St. Peter's Chair ; 
But the people murmur, and say, 

' Our souls are sick and forlorn. 
And who will show us where 

Is the stable where Christ was born ?' 



II, 
The star is lost in the dark ? 

The manger is lost in the straw ; 
The Christ cries faintly . . hark ! 

Through bands that swaddle and 
strangle — 
But the Pope in the chair of awe 
Looks down the great quadrangle. 



Tic magi kneel at his foot. 

Kings of the east and west. 
But instead of the angels, (mute 

Is the ' Peace on earth' of their song,) 
The peoples, jerplexed and opprest. 

Are sighing, ' How long, how long V 



And, instead of the kine. bewilder in 
Shadow of aisle and dome, 

'f he bear who tore up the children, 
T]\e fo.v who burnt up the com. 

And the wolf who suckled at Rome 
Brothers to s'lay and to scorn. 



Cardmals left and right of him. 
Worshippers round and beneath. 



3ia 



ITALY AND THE WORLD. 



The silver trumpets at sight of him 
Thrill with a ma<?ical blast : 

But the people say through their teeth, 
' Trumpets ? we wait for the Last !' 



He sits in the place of the Lord, 
And asks for the gifts of the time ? 

Gold, for the haft of a sword, 
To win back Romagna averse. 

Incense, to sweeten a crime. 
And myrrh, to embitter a curse. 



Then a king of the west said, ' Good ! — 
I bring thee the gifts of the time ; 

Red, for the patriot's blood, 
Green, for the martyr's crown. 

White, for the dew and the rime. 

When the morning of God comes 
down.' 



— O mystic tricolor bright ! 

The Pope's heart quailed like a man's. 
The cardinals froze at the sight. 

Bowing their tonsures hoary ; 
And the eyes of the peacock-fans 

Winked at the alien glory. 



But the peoples exLlaimed in hope, 
' Now blessed be he who has brought 

These gifts of the time to the Pope, 
When our souls were sick and forlorn. 

— And here is the star we sought, 
To show us where Christ was born !' 



ITALY AND THE WORLD. 



Florence, Bologna, Parma, Modena, 
When you named them a year ago. 

So many graves reserved by God, m a 
Day of judgment, you seemed to 
know. 

To open and let out the resurrection. 



And meantime (you made yoQr reflec- 
tion 

If you were English) was naught to 
be done 
But sorting sables, in predilection 

For all those martyrs dead and gone,' 

Till the new earth and heaven made 

ready. 



And if your politics were not heady. 
Violent, . . ' Good,' you added, ' good 

In all things ! mourn on sure and steady. 

Churchyard thistles are wholesome 

food 

For our European wandering asses. 



' The date of the resurrection passes 
Human foreknowledge : men unborni 

Will gain by it, (even in the lower 

classes). 

But none of these. It is not the morn ( 

Because the cock of France is crowing, j 



' Cocks crow at midnight, seldom know- 
ing 
Starlight from dawn-light : 'tis a madi 
Poor creature.' Here you pause by 
growing 
Scornful, . . suddenly, let us add. 
The trumphet sounded, the graves werej 
open. 



Life and life and life ! agrope in 
The dusk of death, warm hands, 
stretched out 
For swords, proved more life still tO| 
hope in. 

Beyond and behind. Arise with al 
shout, 
Nation of Italy, slain and buried I 



Hill to hill and turret to turret 

Flashing the tricolor — newly created 

Beautiful Italy, calm, unhurried. 
Rise heroic and renovated. 

Rise to the final restitution. 



ITALY AND THE WORLD. 



3n 



Rise ; prefigure the grand solution 

Of earth's municipal, insular schisms- 
Statesmen draping self-love's concli 
sion 
In cheap, vernacular patriotisms, 
Unable to give up Judaea for Jesus. 



Bring us the higher example ; release 
us 
Into the larger coming time : 
And into Christ's broad garment piece us 
I Rags of virtue as poor as crime, 
I National selfishness, civic vaunting. 



No more Jew or Greek then — taunting 
Nor taunted ; no more England nor 
France ! 
But one confederate brotherhood, 
planting 
One flag only, to mark the advance. 
Onward and upward, of all humanity. 



For fully developed Christianity 

Is civilization perfected. 
' Measure the frontier,' shall be said, 

' Count the ships,' in national vanity 1 
y— Count the nation's heart-beats sooner. 



[For, though behind by a cannon or 

f schooner, 

I That nation still is predominant, 

(Whose pulse beats quickest in zeal to 
oppugn or 
Succor another, in wrong or want. 

Passing the frontier in love and abhor- 
rence. 

I xni. 

^Modena, Parma, Bologna, Florence, 
Open us out the wider way ! 

Dwarf in that chapel of old St, Law- 
rence 
Your Michael Angelo's g ant Day, 

With the grandeur of this Day breaking 
o'er us ! 



Ye who restrained as an ancient chorus, 
Mute while the coryphaeus spake, 



Hush your separate voices before us. 

Link your separate lives for the sake 
Of one sole Italy's living forever ! 



Givers of coat and cloak too, — never 
Grudging that purple of yours at the 
best, — 
By your heroic will and endeavor 

Each sublimely dispossessed. 
That all may inherit what each sur- 
renders ! 



Earth shall bless you, O noble emenders 
On egotist nations ! Ye shall lead 

The plough of the world, and sow new 
splendors 
Into the furrow of things, for seed, — 

Ever the richer for what ye have given. 

XVII. 

Lead us and teach us, till earth and 
heaven 
Grow larger around us and higher 
above. 
Our sacrament-bread has a bitter leav- 
en ; 
We bait our traps with the name of 
love, 
Till hate itself has a kinder meaning. 

XVIII. 

Oh, this world : this cheating and 
screening 
Of cheats ! this conscience for candle- 
wicks, 
Not beacon-fires ! this over-weening 

Of under-hand diplomatic tricks. 
Dared for the country while scorned 
for the counter ! 

XIX. 

Oh, this envy of those who mount here. 
And oh, this malice to make them trip 
Rather quenching the fire there, drying 
the fount here. 
To frozen body and thirsty lip. 
Than leave to a neighbor their ministra- 
tion. 



I cry aloud in my poet-passion. 



A CURSE FOR A NATION. 



Viewing my England o'er Alp and 

sea. 

I loved her more in her ancient fashion : 

She carries her rifles too thick for me. 

Who spares them so in the cause of a 

brother. 

XXI 

Suspicion, panic ? end this pother. 
The sword, kept sheathless at peace- 
time, rusts. 
None fears for himself while he feels for 
another : 
The brave man either fights or trasts. 
And wears no mail in his private cham- 
ber. 



Beautiful Italy ! golden amber 

Warm with the kisses of lover and 
traitor ! 
Thou who hast drawn us on to remem- 
ber. 
Draw lis to hope now : let us be 
greater 
By this new future than that old story. 



xxm. 
Till truer glory replaces all glory. 

As the torch grows blind at the dawn 
of day ; 
And the nations rising up, their sorry 

And foolish sins shall put away, 
As children their toys when the teacher 
enters. 



XXIV. 

Till Love's one centre devour these 
centres 
Of many self-loves ; and the patriot's 
trick 
To better his land by egotist ventures. 
Defamed from a virtue, shall make 
men sick. 
As the scalp at the belt of some red 
hero. 

XXV. 

For certain virtues have dropped to zero 
Left by the sun on the mountain's 
dewy side ; 



Churchman's charities, tender as Nero, 

Indian suttee, heathen suicide. 
Service to rights divine, proved hollow 



And Heptarchy patriotism must follow, 
— National voices, distinct yet de- 
pendent. 
Ensphering each other, as swallow does 
swallow. 
With circles still widening and ever 
ascendant. 
In multiform life to united progression, — 

xxvii. 
These shall remain. And when, in the 
session 
Of nations, the separate language is 
heard. 
Each shall aspire, in sublime indiscre-^ 
tion, 
To help with a thought or exalt with 
a word 
Less her own than her rival's honor. 



XXVIII. 

Each Christian nation shall take upon^ 
her 
The law of the Christian man in vast : 
The crown of the getter shall fall to the 
donor. 
And last shall be first while first shall 
be last, 
And to love best shall still be, to reign 
unsurpassed. 



A CURSE FOR A NATION. 

PROLOGUE. 

I HEARD an angel speak last night. 

And he said, ' Write ! 
Write a nation's curse for me. 
And send it over the Western Sea.' 

I faltered, taking up the word : 

' Not so, my lord ! 
If curses must be, choose another 
To send thy curse against my brother. 



A CURSE FOR A NATION. 



3'5 



For I am bound by gratitude, 
By love and blood, 
ro brothers of mine across the sea, 
Vho stretch out kindly hands to me.' 

Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou 

write 
My curse to-night, 
""rom the summits of love a curse is 

driven, 
Vs lightning is from the tops of heaven.' 

Not so,' I answered. ' Evermore 

My heart is sore 
^"or my own land's sins : for little feet 
i)f children bleeding along the street : 

For parked-up honors that gainsay 

The right of way : 
?"or almsgiving through a door that is 
.Vot open enough for two friends to kiss: 

For love of freedom which abates 

Beyond the Straits : 
■•"or patriot virtue starved to vice on 
Self-praise, self-interest, and suspicion : 

For an oligarchic parliament. 

And bribes well-meant. 
What curse to another land assign. 
When heavy - souled for the sms of 
mine V 

' Therefore,' the voice said, ' shalt thou 

write 
My curse to-night. 
Because thou hast strength to see and 

hate , 

A foul thing done within thy gate. 

• Not so,' I answered once again. 

' To curse, choose men. 
For I, a woman, have only known 
How the heart melts and the tears run 
down.' 

•Therefore,' the voice said, ' shalt thou 
write 
My curse to-night. 
Some women weep and curse, I say 
(And no one marvels,) night and day. 



' And thou shalt take their pa.t to-night- 

Weep and write. 
A curse from the depths of womanhood 
Is very salt, and bitter, and good.' 

So thus I wrote and mourned indeed. 

What all may read. 
And thus, as was enjoined on me, 
I send it over the Western Sea. 



THE CUKSE. 
1. 

Because ye have broken your own 
chain 
With the strain 
Of brave men climbing a , nation's 

height. 
Yet thence bear down with brand and 

thong 
On souls of others,— for this wrong 
This is the curse. Write, 

Because yourselves are standing straight 

In the state 
Of Freedom's foremost acolyte. 
Yet keep calm footing all the time 
On writhing bond-slaves, — for this 
crime 

This is the curse. Write. 

Because ye prosper in God's name. 

With a claim 
To honor in the old world's sight. 
Yet do the fiend's work perfectly 
In strangling martyrs, — for this lie 

This is the curse. Write. 



Ye shall watch while kings conspire 
Round the people's smouldering fire. 

And, warm for your part. 
Shall never dare — O shame ! 
To utter the thought into flame 
^ Which burns at your heart. 
This is the curse. Write. 

Ye shall watch while nations strive 
With the bloodhounds, die or survive. 

Drop faint from their jaws, 
Or throttle them backward to death. 
And only under your breath 



1i6 



A COURT LADY. 



Shall favor the cause. 
This is the curse. Write. 

Ye shall watch while strong men draw 
The nets of feudal law 

To strangle the weak. 
And, counting the sin for a sin, 
Your soul shall be sadder within 

Than the word ye shall speak. 
This is the curse. Write. 

When good men are praying erect 
That Christ may avenge his elect 

And deliver the earth. 
The prayer in your ears, said low, 
Shall sound like the tramp of a foe 

That's driving you forth. 
This is the curse. Write, 

When wise men give you their praise. 
They shall pause in the heat of the 
phrase. 
As if carried too far. 



When ye boast your own charters kept i| 
true, ' 

Ye shall blush ;— for the thing which ye \ 
do 
Derides what ye are. 
This is the curse. Write. 



When fools cast taunts at your gate, 
Your scorn ye shall somewhat abate 

As ye look o'er the wall. 
For your conscience, tradition, and 1 

name 
Explode with a deadlier blame 
Than the worst of them all. 
This is the curse. Write. 

Go, wherever ill deeds shall be done. 
Go. plant your flag in the sun 

Beside the ill-doers I 
And recoil from clenching the curse 
Of God's witnessing Universe 

With a curse of yours. 
This is the curse. Write. 



A COURT LADY. 



Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with purple were dark. 
Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red and restless spark. 



Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in race ; 
Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face. 



Never was lady on earth more true as woman and wife. 
Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in manners and life. 



She stood in the early morning, and said to her maidens, ' Bring 
That silken robe made ready to wear at the court of the king 



' Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid, clear of the mote. 

Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp me the small at the throat. 



Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to fasten the sleeves 
Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of snow from the eaves.' 



A COURT LADY. 31/ 



Gorgeous she entered the sunlight, which gathered her up in a flame. 
While, straight in her open carriage, she to the hospital came. 

VIII. 

In she went at the door, and gazing from end to end, 

' Many and low are the pallets, but each is the place of a friend.' 



Up she passed through the wards, and stood at a young man's bed ; 
Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the droop of his head. 



• Art thou a Lombard, my brother ? Happy art thou,' she cried, 
And smiled like Italy on him : he dreamed in her face and died. 



Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to a second ; 

He was a grave hard man, whose years by dungeons were reckoned. 



Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life were sorer, 

• Art thou a Romagnole t ' Her eyes drove the lightnings before her. 



Austrian and priest had joined to double and tighten the cord 
Able to bind thee, O-strong one— free by the stroke of a sword. 

XIV. 

' Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life overcast 

To ripen our wine of the present, (too new,) in glooms of the past.' 



Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face like a girl's 
Young, and pathetic with dying — a deep black hole in the curls. 

XVI. 

' Art thou from Tuscany, brother ? and seest thou, dreaming in pain, 
Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the list of the slain ? ' 

XVII. 

Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks with her hands : 

' Blessed is she who has borne thee, although she should weep as she stands. 

xviit. 
On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball ; 
Kneeling . . ' O more than my brother ! how shall I thank thee for all V 



3i8 CONFESSIONS. 



' Each of the heroes around us has fought for his land and line. 
But i^ou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrong not thine. 



' Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispossessed, 

But blessed are those among nations, who dare to be strong for the rest I' 



Ever she passed on her way, and came to a couch where pined 
One with a face from Venetia, white with a hope out of mind. 



Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at the name. 
But two great crystal tears were all that faltered and came. 



Only a tear for Venice ? — she turned as in passion and loss, 

And stooped to his forehead and kissed it, as if she were kissing the cross. 

XXIV. 

Fain*: with that strain of heart she moved on then to another. 

Stern and strong in his death. ' And dost thou suffer, my brother 1 ' 

XXV. 

Holding his hands in hers : — ' Out of the Piedmont lion 

Cometh the sweetness of freedom 1 sweetest to live on or to die on.' 



Holding his cold rough hands — ' Well, oh well have ye done 
In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be noble alone.* 



Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her feet with a spring— 
• That was Piedmontese ! and this is the Court of the King. 



CONFESSIONS. 



Face to face in my chamber, my silent chamber, I saw her ! 
God and she and 1 only,, .there, I sate down to draw her 
Soul through the clefts of confession. .. Speak, I am holding thee fast. 
As the angels of resurrection shall do at the last.' 
• My cup is blood-red 
With my sin,' she said, 
' And I pour it out to bjtter lees. 
As if the angels of judgment stood over me strong at the last. 
Or as thou wert as these !' 



CONFESSIONS. 3^9 



When God smote His hands together, and struck cut thy soul as a spark 
Into the organized glory of things, from deeps of the dark, — 
Say, didst thou shine, didst thou burn, didst thou honour the power in the form. 
As the star does at night, or the fire-fly, or even the little ground worm 1 
' I have sinned,' she said, 
' For my seed-light shed 
Has smouldered away from His first decrees ! 
The cypress praiseth the fire-fly, the ground-leaf praiseth the worm : 
I am viler than these ! ' 



When God on that sin had pity, and did not trample thee straight 
With His wild rains beating and drenching thy light found inadequate ; 
When He only sent thee the north-winds, a little searching and chill. 
To quicken thy flame, .didst thou kindle and flash to the heights of His will ? 
• I have sinned,' she said, 
' Unquickened, unspread 
Mj' fire dropt down ; and I wept on my knees ! 
I only said of His winds of the north as I shrank from their chill,. . 
What delight is in these V 



When God on that sin had pity, and did not meet it as such. 
But tempered the wind to thy uses, and softened the world to thy touch ; 
At least thou wast moved in thy soul, though imable to prove it afar, 
Thou couldst carry thy light like a jewel, not giving it out like a star? 
' I have sinned,' she said, 
' And not merited 
The gift He gives, by the grace He sees ! 
The mine-cave praiseth the jewel, the hill-side praiseth the star : 
I am viler than these.' 

V. 
Then I cried aloud in my passion, . . unthankful and impotent creature. 
To throw up thy scorn unto God through the rents in thy beggarly nature I 
If He, the all-giving and loving, is served so unduly, what then 
Hast thou done to the weak and the false, and the changing, . . thy fellows of 
men ? 

' I have loved,' she said, 

(Words bowing her head 

As the wind the wet acacia-tree I) 

' I saw God sitting above me,^ — but I . . I sate among men, 

And I have loved these.' 

vi. 
Again with a lifted voice, like a choral trumpet that takes 
The lowest note of a viol that trembles, and triumphing breaks 
On the air with it solemn and clear, — ' Behold ! I have sinned not in this ! 
Where I loved, I have loved much and well, — I have verily loved not amiss. 



320 CONFESSIONS. 

' Let the living,' she said, 

' Enquire of the Dead, 
In the house of tlie pale-fronted Images, 
My own true dead will answer for me, that 1 have not loved amiss 
In my love for all these. 

VII. 

• The least touch of their hands in the morning, I keep it by day and by night ; 
Their least step on the stair, at the door, still throbs through me, if ever so light 
Their least gift, which tliey left to my childhood, far off, in the long-ago years, 
Is now turned from a toy to a relic, and seen through the crystals of tears. 
Dig the snow,' she said 
' For my churchyard bed ; 
Yet I, as I sleep, shall not fear to freeze, 
If one only of these my beloveds, shall love me with heart-warm tears, 
As I have loved these 1 

vm. 
' If I angered any among them, from thenceforth my own life was sore ; 
If I fell by chance from their presence, I clung to their memory more : 
Their tender I often felt holy, their bitter I sometimes called sweet : 
And whenever their heart was refused me, I fell down straight at their feet. 
' I have loved,' she said, — 
• Man is weak, God is dread ; 
Yet the weak man dies with his spirit at ease. 
Having poured such an unguent of love but once on the Saviour's feet, 
As I lavished for these.' 

IX. 
Go, I cried, thou hast chosen the Human, and left the Divine ! 
Then, at least, have the Human shared with thee their wild berry-wine ? 
Have they loved back thy love, and when strangers approach thee with blarney 
Have they covered thy fault with their kisses, and loved thee the same? 
But she shrunk and said, 
' God, over my head. 
Must sweep in the wrath of His judgment seas, 
If //g deal with me sinning, but only indeed the same 
And no gentler than these.' 



AURORA LKIGH 



FIRST BOOK. 

Of writing many books there is no end ; 
And I have written much in prose and 

verse 
For others' uses, will write now for 

mine, — 
Will write my story for my better self, 
As when you paint your portrait for a 

friend, 
Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it 
Long after he has ceased to love you, 

just 
To hold together what he was and is. 

I, writing thus, am still what men call 

young ; 
I have not so far left the coasts of life 
To travel inland, that I cannot hear 
That murmur of the outer Infinite 
Which unweaned babies smile at in their 

sleep 
When wondered at for smiling ; not so 

far, 
' But still I catch my mother at her post 
Beside the nursery-door, with finger up, 
' Hush, hush — here's too much noise 1 ' 

while her sweet eyes 
Leap forward, taking part against her 

word 
In the child's riot. Still I sit and feel 
My father's slow hand, when she had 

left us both. 
Stroke out my childish curls across his 

knee ; 
And hear Assunta's daily jest (she knew 
He Hked it better than a better Jest) 
Inquire how many golden scudi went 
To make such ringlets. O my father's 

hand, 
Stroke heavily, heavily the poor hair 

down. 
Draw, press the child's head closer to thy 

knee I 
I'm still too young, too young, to sit 

alone. 



I write. My mother was a Florentine, 
Whose rare blue eyes were shut from 

seeing me 
When scarcely I was four years old ; my 

life 
A poor spark snatched up from a failing 

lamp 
Which went out therefore. She was 

weak and frail ; 
She could not bear the joy of giving 

life— 
The mother's rapture slew her. If her 

kiss 
Had left a longer weight upon my lips, 
It might have steadied the uneasy breath. 
And reconciled and fraternised my soul 
With the new order. As it was, indeed, 
I felt a mother-want about the world. 
And still went seeking, like a bleating 

lamb 
Left out at night in shutting up the 

fold,— 
As restless as a nest-deserted bird 
Grown chill through something being 

away, though what 
It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was 

born 
To make my father sadder, and myself 
Not overjoyous, truly. Women know 
The way to rear up children, (to be just,) 
They know a simple, merry, tender 

knack 
Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes. 
And stringing pretty words that make 

no sense. 
And kissing full sense into empty words ; 
Which things are corals to cut life upon, 
Although such trifles : children learn by 

such. 
Love's holy earnest in a pretty play, 
And get not over-early solemnised, 
But seeing, as in a rose-bush, Love's 

Divine, 
Which burns and hurts not,— not a sin- 
gle bloom, — 



322 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Become aware and unafraid of Love. 
Such good do mothers. Fathers love as 

well 
— Mine did, I know, — but still "with 

heavier brains, 
And wills more consciously responsible, 
And not as wisely, since less foolishly; 
So mothers have God's license to be 

missed . 

My father was an austere Enghshman, 
Who, after a dry life-time spent at home 
In college-learnmg, law, and parish talk. 
Was flooded with a passion unaware, 
His whole provisioned and complacent 

past 
Drowned out from him that moment. 

As he stood 
In Florence, wliere he had come to 

spend a month 
And note the secret of Da Vinci's 

drains, 
He musing somewhat absently perhaps 
Some English question . . whether men 

should pay 
Tlie unpopular but necessary tax 
With left or right hand— in the alien 

Sim 
In that great square of the Santissima, 
There drifted past him (scarcely marked 

enough 
To move his comfortable island-scorn,) 
A train of priestly banners, cross and 

psalm. 
The white-veiled rose-crowned maidens 

holding up 
Tall tapers, weighty for such wrists, 

aslant 
To the blue luminous tremor of the air. 
And letting drop the white wax as they 

went 
To eat the bishop's wafer at the church ; 
From which long trail of chanting priests 

and girls 
A face flashed like a cymbal on his face, 
And shook with silent clangour brain 

and heart. 
Transfiguring him to music. Thus, even 

thus, 
lie too received his sacramental gift 
Wiih eucharistic meanings ; lor he 

loved. 

And thus beloved, she died. I've heard 
it said 



That but to see him in the first surprise 
Of widower and father, nursing me, 
Unmothered little child of four venra 

old. 
His large man's hands afraid to touch 

my curls. 
As if the yold would tarnish, — his grave 

lips 
Contriving such a miserable smile. 
As if he knew needs must, or I should 

die. 
And yet 'twas hard, — would almost make 

the stones 
Cry out for pity. There's a verse he set 
In Santa Croce to her memory, 
' Weep for an infant too young to woep 

much 
When death removed this mother ' — 

stops the mirth 
To-day on women's faces when they 

walk 
With rosy children hanging on their 

gowns, 
Under the cloister to escape the sun 
That scorches in the piazza. After 

which 
He left our Florence and made haste to 

hide 
Himself, Ins prattling child, and silent 

grief. 
Among the mountains above Pelago ; 
Because unmothered babes, he thought, 

had need 
Of mother nature more than others use. 
And Pan's white goats, with udders 

warm and full 
Of mystic contemplations, come to feed 
Poor milkless lips of orphans hke his 

own — ■ 
Such scholar-scraps he talked, I've heard 

from friends, 
For even prosaic men, who wear grief 

long. 
Will get to wear it as a hat aside 
With a flower stuck in't. Father, then, 

and child, 
We lived among the mountains many 

years, 
God's silence on the outside of the house, 
And we, who did not speak too loud 

within ; 
And old Assunta to make up the fire. 
Crossing herself whene'er a sudden flame 
Which lightened from the firewood, made 

alive 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Tliat picture of my mother on the wall. 
The painter drew it after she was dead ; 
And when the face was finished, throat 

and hands, 
Her cameriera carried him, in hate 
Of the English-fashioned shroud, the 

last brocade 
She dressed in at the Pitti. ' He should 

paint 
No sadder thing than that,' she swore, 

' to wrong 
Her poor signora.' Therefore very 

strange 
The effect was. I, a little child, would 

crouch 
For hours upon the floor with knees 

drawn up. 
And sjaze across them, lialf in terror, 

half 
In adoration, at the picture there, — 
That swan-like supernatural white life. 
Just sailing upward from the red stiff 

silk 
Which seemed to have no part in it, nor 

power 
To keep it from quite breaking out of 

boimds : 
For hours I sate and stared. Assunta's 

awe 
And my poor father's melancholy eyes 
Still pointed that way. That way, went 

my thoughts 
When wandering beyond sight. And as 

I grew 
In years, I mixed, confused, uncon- 
sciously. 
Whatever I last read or heard or dreamed 
Abhorrent, admirable, beautiful, 
Pathetical, or ghastly, or grotesque. 
With still that face . . . which did not 

therefore change. 
But kept the mystic level of all forms 
And fears and admirations, was by turns 
Ghost, fiend, and angel, fairy, witch, and 

sprite, 
A dauntless Muse who eyes a dreadful 

Fate, _ ' 

A loving Psyche who loses sight of Love, 
A still Medusa, with mild milky brows 
All curdled and all clothed upon with 

snakes 
Whose slime falls fast as sweat will ; or, 

anon, 
Our Lady of the Passion, stabbed with 

swords 



Where the Babe sucked ; or, Lamia in 
her first 

Moonlighted pallor, ere she shrunk and 
blinked, 

And, sliuddering, wriggled down to the 
unclean ; 

Or, my own mother, leaving her last 
smile 

In her last kiss, upon the baby-mouth 

My father pushed down on the bed for 
that,— 

Or my dead mother, without smile or 
kiss, 

Buried at Florence. All which images, 

Concentred on the picture, glassed them- 
selves 

Before my meditative childhood, . . as 

The incoherencies of change and death 

Are represented fully, mixed and merg- 
ed. 

In the smooth fair mystery of perpetual 
Life. 

And while I stared away my childish 
wits 

Upon mv mother's picture, (ah, poor 
child!) 

My fiither, who through love had sud- 
denly 

Thrown off the old conventions, broken 
loose 

From chin-bands of the soul, like Laza- 
rus, 

Yet had no time to learn to talk and 
walk 

Or grow anew familiar with the sun, — 

Who had reached to freedom, not to 
action, lived, 

But lived as one entranced, with 
thoughts, not aims, — 

Whom love had unmade from a common 
man 

But not completed to an uncommon 
man, — 

My father taught me what he had learnt 
the best 

Before he died and left me,— grief and 
love. 

And, seeing we had books among the 
hills. 

Strong words of counselling souls con- 
federate 

With vocal pines and waters, — out of 
books 

He taught me all the ignorance of men, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And how God laughs in heaven when 
any man 

Says ' Here I'm learned ; this, I under- 
stand ; 

In that. I am never caught at fault or 
doubt.' 

He sent the schools to school, demon- 
strating 

A fool will pass for such through one 
mistake, 

While a philosopher will pass for such. 

Through said mistakes being ventured 
in the gross 

And heaped up to a system. 

I am like, 

They tell me, my dear father. Broader 
brows 

Howbeit, upon a slenderer undergrowth 

Of delicate features,— paler, near as 
grave ; 

But then my mother's smile breaks up 
the whole, 

And makes it better sometimes than 
itself. 

So, nine full years, our days were hid 

with God 
Among his mountains. I was just thir- 
teen, 
Still growing like the plants from unseen 

roots 
In tongue-tied Springs, — and suddenly 

awoke 
To full life and life's needs and agonies. 
With an intense, strong, struggling 

heart beside 
A stone-dead father. Life, struck sharp 

on death. 
Makes awful lightning. His last word 

was, ' Love—' 
' Love, my child, love.love ! '—(then he 

had done with grieQ 
'Love, my child.' Ere I answered he 

was gone, 
And none was left to love in all the 

world. 

There, ended childhood : what suc- 
ceeded next 
I recollect as, after fevers, men 
Thread back the passage of delirium, 
Missing the turn still, baffled by the 

door; 
Smooth endless days, notched here and 
there with knives ; 



A weary, wormy darkness, spurred 'i 

the flank 
With flame, that it should eat and end 

itself 
Like some tormented scorpion. Then, 

at last, 
I do remember clearly, how there came 
A stranger with authority, not right, 
(I thought not) who commanded, caught 

me up 
From old Assunta's neck ; how, with a 

shriek. 
She let me go, — while I, with ears too 

full 
Of my father's silence, to shriek back a 

word, 
In all a child's astonishment at grief 
Stared at the wharf-edge where she 

stood and moaned. 
My poor Assunta, where she stood and 

moaned ! 
The white walls, the blue hills, my Italy, 
Drawn backward from the shudderu.g 

steamer-deck, 
Like one in anger drawing back her 

skirts 
Which suppliants catch at. Then tne 

bitter sea 
Inexorably pushed between us both. 
And sweeping up the ship with my de- 
spair 
Threw us out as a 23asture to the stars. 

Ten nights and days we voyaged on the 

deep; 
Ten nights and days without the com- 
mon face 
Of any day or night ; the moon and sun 
Cut off from the green reconciling earth. 
To starve into a blind ferocity 
And glare unnatural ; the very sky 
(Dropping its bell-net down upon the sea 
As if no human heart should 'scaj^e 

alive,) 
Bedraggled with the desolating salt, 
Until it seemed no more that holy heaven 
To which my father went. All new, and 

strange — 
The universe turned stranger, for a child. 

Then, land !— then, England ! oh, the 

frosty cliffs 
Looked cold upon me. Could I find a 

home 



AURORA LEIGH. 



325 



Among those mean red houses through 

the fog? 
And when I heard my father's language 

first 
From alien lips which had no kiss for 

mine, 
1 wept aloud, then laughed, then wept, 

then wept, 
And some one near me said the child was 

mad 
Through much sea-sickness. The *rain 

swept us on. 
Was this my father's England? the great 

isle? 
The ground seemed cut up from the fel- 
lowship 
Of verdure, field from field, as man from 

man ; 
The skies themselves looked low and 

positive. 
As almost you could touch them with a 

hand. 
And dared to do it they were so far off 
From God's celestial crystals ; all things 

blurred 
And dull and vague. Did Shakespeare 

and his mates 
Absorb the light here? — not a hill or 

stone 
With heart to strike a radiant colour up 
Or active outline on the indiiferent air ! 

I think I see my father's sister stand 
Upon the hall-step of her country-house 
To give me welcome. She stood straight 

and calm. 
Her somewhat narrow forehead braided 

tight 
As if for taming accidental thoughts 
From possible pulses ; brown hair prick- 
ed with gray 
By frigid use of life, (she was not old 
Although my father's elder by a year) 
A nose drawn sharply, yet in delicate 

lines ; 
A close mild mouth, a little soured about 
The ends, through speaking unrequited 

loves, 
Or peradventure niggardly half-truths ;< 
Eyes of no color, — once they might have 

smiled. 
But never, never have forgot themselves 
In smiling ; cheeks in which was yet a 

rose [book, 

Of perished summers, like a rose ia a 



Kept more for ruth than pleasure, — if 

past bloom. 
Past fading also. 

She had lived, we'll say, 
A harmless life, she called a virtuous life, 
A quiet life, which was not life at ail, 
(But that, she had not lived enough to 

know) 
Between the vicar and the county squires, 
The lord-lieutenant looking down some- 

. times 
From the empyrean to assure their souls 
Against chance vulgarisms, and, in the 

abyss, 
The apothecary looked on once a year, 
To prove their soundness of humility. 
The poor-club exercised her Christian 

gifts _ _ 

Of knitting stockings, stitching petti- 
coats, 
Becaust we are of one flesh after all 
And need one flannel, (with a proper 

sense 
Of difference in the quality) — and still 
The book-club, guarded fiom your mod- 
ern trick 
Of shaking dangerous questions from 

the crease. 
Preserved her intellectual. She had 

lived 
A sort of cage-bird life, born in a cage. 
Accounting that to leap from perch to 

perch 
Was act and joy enough for any bird. 
Dear heaven, how silly are the things 

that live 
In thickets, and eat berries ! 

I, alas, 
A wild bird scarcely fledged, was brought 

to her cage. 
And she was there to meet me. Very 

kind. 
Bring the clean water ; give out the fresh 

seed. 

She stood upon the steps to welcome 

me, 
Calm, in black garb. I clung about her 

neck, — 
Young babes, who catch at every shred 

ol wool 
To draw the new light close>-, catch and 

cling 
Less blindly. In my ears, my father's 

word 



S26 



AURORA LEIGH. 



nummed Ignorantly, as the sea in shells, 
' Love, love, my child.' She, black 

there with my grief, 
Might feel my love— she was his sister 

once — 
I Clung to her. A moment she seemed 

moved, 
Kissed me with cold lips, suffered me to 

cling. 
And drew me feebly through the hall into 
The room she sate in. 

There, with some strange spasin 
Of pain and passion, she wrung loose 

my hands 
Imperiously, and held me at arm's 

length. 
And with two gray-steel naked-bladed 

eyes 
Searched through my face, — ay, stabbed 

it tlirough and through, 
Through brows and cheeks and chin, as 

if to find 
A wicked murderer in my innocent face. 
If not here, there perhaps. 'I'lien, 

drawing breath, 
She struggled for her ordinary calm. 
And missed it rather,— told me not to 

shrink. 
As if she had told me not to lie or 

swear, 
' She loved my father and would love me 

too 
As long as I deserved it.' Very kind. 

I understood her meaning afterward ; 
She thought to find my mother in my 

face. 
And questioned it for that. For she, 

my aunt, 
Had loved my father truly, as she 

could, 
\;id hated, with the gall of gentle souls. 
My 'I'uscan mother who had fooled 

away 
A wise man from wise courses, a good 

man 
From obvious duties, and, depriving her. 
His sister, of the household precedence. 
Had wronged his tenants, robbed his 

native land, 
And made him mad, alike by life and 

death, 
In love and sorrow. She had pored for 

years 
What sort of woman could be suitable 



To her sort of hate, to entertain it with 
And so, her very curiosity 
Became hate too, and all the idealism 
She ever used in life, was used for hate, 
Till hate, so nourished, did exceed at 

last 
The love from which it grew, in strength 

and heat, 
And wrinkled her smooth conscience 

with a sense 
Of disputable virtue (say not, sin) 
When Christian doctrine was enforced 

at church. 

And thus my father's sister was to me 
My mother's hater. From that day, she 

did 
Her duty to me, (I appreciate it 
I n her own word as spoken to herselO 
Her duty, in large measure, well-pressed 

out. 
But measured always. She was gener- 

nnis, bland, 
More courteous than was tender, gave 

me still 
The first place, — as if fearful that God's 

saints 
Would look down suddenly and say, 

' Herein 
You missed a point, I think, through 

lack of love.' 
Alas, a mother never is afraid 
Of speaking angerly to any child. 
Since love, she knows, is justified of love. 

And I, I was a good child on tha whole, 
A meek and manageable child. Why 

not ? 
I did not live, to have the faults of life: 
Theic seemed more true life in my fath- 
er's grave 
Than in all England. Since that threw 

me off 
Who fain would cleave, (his latest will, 

they say, 
Consigned me to his land) I only thought 
Of lying quiet there where I was thrown 
Like sea-weed on the rocks, and suffer- 
ing her 
To prick me to a pattern with her pin, 
Fibre from fibre, delicate leaf from leaf, 
And dry out from my drowned anatomy 
The last sea-salt left in me. 

So it was. 
I broke the copious curls upon my head 



AURORA LEIGH. 



3^7 



lu braids, because she liked smooth-or- 
dered hair. 
I lell C)lf sayiiic; my sweet Tuscan words 
Which still at any stirring of the heart 
Came up to float across the English 

phrase, 
As lilies, {Bene . . or che eke) because 
hJhe liked my lather's child to speak his 

tongue. 
I learnt the collects and the catechism, 
The creeds, from Athanasius back to 

Nice, 
The Articles . . the Tracts against the 

times, 
(By no means Buonaventure's ' Prick of 

Love,') 
And various popular synopses of 
Inhuman doctrines never taught by John, 
Because she liked instructed piety. 
I learnt my complement of classic French 
(Kept pure of Balzac and neologism,) 
Aiid German also, since she liked a range 
Of liberal education, — tongues, not 

books. 
I learn*; a little algebra, a little 
Of the mathematics, — brushed with ex- 
treme flounce • 
The circle of the sciences, because 
She misliked women who are frivolous. 
I learnt the royal genealogies 
Of Oviedo, the internal laws 
Of the Burmese empire, . . by how 

many feet 
Mount Chiinborazo outsoars Teneriffe, 
What navigable river joins itself 
To Lara, and what census of the year 

five 
Was taken at Klagenfurt, — because she 

liked _ 
A general insight into useful facts. 
I learnt much music, — such as would 

have been 
As quite impossible in Johnson's day 
As still it might be wished— fine sleights 

of hand 
And unimagined fingering, shuffling off 
The hearer's soul through hurricanes of 

notes [tumes 

To a noisy Tophet ; and I drew . . cos- 
From French engravings, nereids neatly 

draped, 
vVith smirks of simmering godship, — I 

washed in 
Landscapes from nature (rather say, 

washed out.) 



I danced the polka and Cellarius, 

Spun glass, stuffed birds, and modelled 

flowers in wax. 
Because she liked accomplishments in 

girls. 
I read a score of books on womanhood 
To prove, if women do not think at all. 
They may teach thinking, (to a maiden- 
aunt 
Or else the author)— books that boldly 

assert 
Their right of comprehending husband's 

talk 
When not too deep, and even of answer- 
ing 
With pretty ' may it please you,' or ' so 

it is,' — 
Their rapid insight and fine aptitude. 
Particular worth and general missionari- 

ness. 
As long as they keep quiet by the fire 
And never say ' no ' when the world say 

'ay,' 
For that is fatal, — their angelic reach 
Of virtue, chiefly used to sit and darn. 
And fatten household sinners, — their, in 

brief. 
Potential faculty in everything 
Of abdicating power in it: she owned 
She liked a woman to be womanly. 
And English women, she thanked God 

and sighed, 
(Some people always sigh in thanking 

God) 
Were models to the universe. And last 
I learnt cross-stitch, because she did not 

like 
To see me wear the night with empty 

hands, 
A-doing nothing. So, my shepherdess 
Was something after all, (the pastoral 

saints 
Be praised for't) leaning lovelorn with 

pink eyes 
To match her shoes, when I mistook the 

silks ; 
Her head uncrushed by that round weight 

of hat 
So strangely similar to the tortoise-shell 
Which slew the tragic poet. 

By the way, 
The works of women are symbolical. 
We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull our 
sight, 



32S 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Producing what? A pair of slippers, 

sir, 
'lo put on when you're weary — or a 

stool 
To tumble over and vex you . . ' curse 

that stool !' 
Or else at best, a cushion, where you 

lean 
And sleep, and dream of something we 

are not, 
But would be for your sake. Alas, alas I 
This hurts most, this . . that, after all, 

we are paid 
The worth of our work, perhaps. 

In looking down 
Those years of education, (to return) 
I wonder if Brinvilliers suffered more 
In the water torture, . . flood succeed- 
ing flood 
To drench the incapable throat and split 

the veins . . 
Than I did. Certain of your feebler 

souls 
Go out in such a process ; many pine 
To a sick, inodorous light ; my own en- 
dured : 
I had relations in the Unseen, and drew 
The elemental nutriment and heat 
From nature, as earth feels the sun at 

nights. 
Or as a babe sucks surely in the dark, 
I kept the life thrust on me, on the out- 
side 
Of the inner life with all its ample room 
For lieart and lungs, for will and intel- 
lect. 
Inviolable by conventions. God, 
I thank thee for that grace of thine ! 

At first, 
I felt no life which was not patience, — 

did 
The thing she bade me, without heed to 

a thing 
Beyond it, sate in just the chair she 

placed. 
With back against the window, to ex- 
clude 
The sight of the great lime-tree on the 

lawn. 
Which seemed to have come on purpose 

from the woods 
To bring the house a message, — ay, and 

walked 
Demurely in her carpeted low rooms, 



As if I should not, harkening my own 

steps, 
Misdoubt I was alive. I read her books, ,| 
Was civil to her cousin, Romney Leigh, J 
Gave ear to her vicar, tea to her visitors, 
And heard them whisper, when I changed 

a cup, 
(I blushed for joy at that)— 'The Italian 

child, 
For all her blue eyes and her quiet ways, 
Thrives ill in England ; she is paler yet 
Than when we came the last time ; she 

will die.' 

' Will die.' My cousin, Romney Leigh, 

blushed too. 
With sudden anger, and approaching ; 

me 
Said low between his teeth — ' You're 

wicked now! 
You wish to die and leave the world a- 

dusk 
For others, with your naughty light: 

blown out ? ' 
I looked into his face del'yingly. 
He might have known that, being what 

I was, 
'Twas natural to like to get away 
As far as dead folk can ; and then indeed 
iSome people make no trouble when they 

die. 
He turned and went abruptly, slamined 

the door 
And shut his dog out. 

Romney, Romney Leigh. 
I have not named my cousin hitherto, 
And yet I used him as a sort of friend ; 
My elder by few years, but cold and sliy 
And absent . . tender when he thought 

of it. 
Which scarcely was imperative, grave : 

betimes. 
As well as early master of Leigh Hall, 
Whereof the nightmare state upon liis 

youth 
Repressing all its seasonable delights. 
And agonising with a ghastly sense 
Of universal hideous want and wrong 
To incriminate possession. When hei 

came 
From college to the country, very oft 
He crossed the hill on visits to my aunt, 
With gifts of blu°. grapes from the hot- 1 
I houses, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



A book in one hand. — mere statistics, (if 
I dianced to lift the cover) count of all 
The goats whose beards grow sprouting 
down toward hell, 

Against God's separative judgment- 
hour. 

And she, she almost loved him, — even 
allowed 

Tliat sometimes he should seem to sigh 
my way ; 

It made him easier to be pitiful, 

And sighing was his gift. So, undis- 
turbed 

At whiles she let him shut my music up 

And push my needles down, atjd lead 
me out 

To see in that south angle of the house 

The figs grow black as if by a Tuscan 
rock, 

On some light pretext. She would turn 
her head 

At other moments, go to fetch a thing. 

And leave me breath enough to speak 
with him. 

For his sake ; it was simple. 

Sometimes too 

He would have saved me utterly, it 
seemed. 

He stood and looked so 

Once, he stood so near 

He dropped a sudden hand upon my 
head 

Bent down on woman's work, as soft as 
rain — 

But then I rose and shook it off as fire, 

The stranger's touch that took my 
father's place 

Yet dared seem soft. 

I used him for a friend 

Before I ever knew him for a friend. 

Twas better, 'twas worse also, after- 
ward : 

We came so close, we saw our differences 

Too intimately. Always Romney Leigh 

Was looking for the worms, I for the 
gods. 

A godlike nature his; the gods look 
down, 

Incurious of themselves ; and certainly 

'Tis well I should remember, how, those 
days, 

I was a worm too, and he looked on me. 

A little by his act perhaps, yet more 
By something in me, surely not my will, 



I did not die. But slowly, as one in 
swoon, 

To whom life creeps back in the form of 
death. 

With a sense of separation, a blind pain 

Oi blank obstruction, and a roar i' the 
ears 

Of visionary chariots which retreat 

As earth grows clearer . . slowly, by de- 
grees, 

I woke, rose up . . where was I ? in the 
world ; 

For uses therefore I must count worth 
while. 

I had a little chamber in the house, 
As green as any privet-hedge a bird 
Might choose to build in, though the 

nest itself 
Could show but dead-brown sticks and 

straws; the walls 
Were green, the carpet was pure gieen, 

the straight 
Small bed was curtained greenly, and 

the folds 
Hung green about the window, which 

let in . 

The out-door world with all its greenery. 
You could not push your head out and 

escape 
A dash of dawn-dew from the honey- 
suckle, 
But so you were baptised into the grace 
And privilege of seeing. . . 

First, the lime, 
(I had enough, there, of the lime, be 

sure, — 
My morning-dream was often hummed 

away 
By the bees in it ;) past the lime, the 

lawn, < 

Which, after sweeping broadly round 

the house. 
Went trickling through the shrubberies 

in a stream 
Of tender turf, and wore and lost itself 
•Among the acacias, over which, you saw 
The irregular line of elms by the deep 

lane 
Which stopped the grounds and dammed 

the overflow 
Of arbutus and laurel. Out of sight 
The lane was; sunk so deep, no foreign 

tramp 
Nor drover of wild ponies out of Wales 



33° 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Could guess if lady's hall or tenant's 
lodge 

Dispensed such odours, — though his 
slick well crooked 

Might reach the lowest trail of blossom- 
ing briar 

Which dipped upon the wall. Behind 
the elms, 

And through their tops, you saw the 
folded hills 

Striped up and down with hedges, (burly 
oaks 

Projecting from the line to show them- 
selves) 

Through which my cousin Romney's 
chimneys smoked 

As still as when a silent mouth in frost 

Breathes — showing where the woodlands 
hid Leigh Hall ; 

While, far above, a jut of table-land, 

A promontory without water, stretched, — 

You could not catch it if the days were 
thick, 

Or took it for a cloud; but, otherwise 

The vigorous sun would catch it up at 
eve 

And use it for an anvil till he had filled 

The shelves of heaven with burning 
thunderbolts, 

Protesting against night and darkness: — 
then, 

When all his setting trouble was re- 
solved 

To a trance of passive glory, you might 
see 

In apparition on the golden sky 

(Alas, my Giotto's background !) the 
sheep run 

Along the fine clear outline, small as 
mice 

That run along a witch's scarlet thread. 



Not a grand ivature. Not my chestnut- 
woods 
Of Vallombrosa, cleaving by the spurs 
To the precipices. Not my headlong 

leaps 
Of waters, that cry out for joy or fear 
In leaping through the palpitating pines, 
Like a white soul tossed out to eternity 
With thrills of time upon it. Not in- 
deed 
My multitudinous mountains, sitting in 
The magic circle, with the mutual touch 



Electric, panting from their full dee| 

hearts 
Beneath the influent heavens, anil w.iii. 

ing for 
Communion and commission. Italy 
Is one thing, England one. 

On P2nglibh grounc 
You understand the letter . . ere the, 

fall 
How Adam lived in a garden. All theJ 

fields 
Are tied up fast with hedges, nosegay* 

like; 
The hills are crumpled plains, — the plainsi 

parterres. 
The trees, round, woolly, ready to b(| 

clipped ; 
And if you seek for any wilderness 
You find, at best, a park. A naturei 

tamed 
And grown domestic like a barn-dooi 

fowl. 
Which does not awe you with its claw!', 

and beak, 
Nor tempt you to an eyrie too high up, , 
But which, in cackling, sets you thiukt 

ing of 
Your eggs to-morrow at breakfast, in th< 

pause 
Of finer meditation. 

Rather say, 
A sweet familiar nature, stealing in 
As a dog might, or child, to touch youi] 

hand 
Or pluck your gown, and humbly mintij 

you so 
Of presence and affection, excellent 
For inner uses, from the things without. 

I could not be unthankful, I who was 
Entreated thus and holpen. In the rooni 
I speak of, ere the house was wdl awake! 
And also after it was well asleep, 
I sat alone, and drew the blessing in 
Of all that nature. With a gradual step! 
A stir among the leaves, a breath, a ray 
It came in softly, while the angels mad( 
A place for it beside me. The moor 

came. 
And swept my chamber clean of foolisl 

thoughts. 
The sun came, saying, ' Shall I lift thii 

light 
Against the lime-tree, and you will nov; 

look? 



I make the birds sing — listen I . . but, 

for you, 
God never hears your voice, excepting 

when 
You lie upon the bed at nights and 

weep.' 

Then, something moved me. Then, I 

wakened up 
More slowly than I verily write now, 
But wholly, at last, I wakened, opened 

wide 
'J'he window and my soul, and let the 

airs 
And out-door sights sweep gradual gos- 
pels in, 
Regenerating what I was. O life, 
How oft we throw it off and think, — 

* Enough, 
Enough of life in so much ! — here's a 

cause 
For rupture ;— herein we must break 

with Life, 
Or be ourselves unworthy ; here we are 

wronged. 
Maimed, spoiled for aspiration : farewell 

Life ! ' 
— And so, as froward babes, we hide 

our eyes 
And ihinic all ended. — Then, Life calls 

to us 
In some transformed, apocalyptic voice. 
Above us, or below us, or around : 
Perhdjis we name it Nature's voice, or 

Love's, 
Tricking ourselves, because we are more 

asliamed 
To own our compensations than our 

griefs : 
Stiil, Life's voice ! — still, we make our 

peace with Life. 

And L so young then, was not sullen. 

Soon 
I used to get up early, just to sit 
And watch the morning quicken in the 

gray. 
And hear the silence open like a flower, 
J^e.if after leaf, — and stroke with listless 

hand 
Tlij woodbine through the window, till 

at last 
I came to do it with a sort of love. 
At io<Mish unaware: whereat I smiled, — 
A melancholy smile, to catch myself 



AURORA LEIGH. 

Smiling for joy. 



33« 



Capacity for joy 
Admits temptation. It seemed, next. 

worth while 
To dodge the sharp sword set against my 

life ; 
To slip down stairs through all the sleepy 

house. 
As mute as any dream there, and escape 
As a soul from the body, out of doors. 
Glide through the shrubberies, drop intP 

the lane, 
And wander on the hills an hour or two. 
Then back again before the house should 

stir. 

Or else I sat on in my chamber green. 
And lived my life, and thoilght my 

thoughts, and prayed 
My prayers without the vicar : read my 

books, 
Without considering whether they were 

fit 
To do me good. Mark, there. We get 

no good 
By being ungenerous, even to a book, 
And calculating profits . . so much help 
By so much reading. It is rather when 
We gloriously forget ourselves and 

plunge 
Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's 

profound, 
Impassioned for its beauty and salt of 

truth — 
'Tis then we get the right good from a 

book. 

I read much. What my father taught 
before 

From many a volume, Love re-empha- 
sised 

Upon the self-same pages ; Theophrast 

Grew tender with the memory of his 
eyes, 

And iEUan made mine wet. The trick 
of Greek 

And Latin, he had taught me, as he 
would 

Have taught me wrestling or the game 
of fives 

If such he had known,— most like a ship- 
wrecked man 

Who heaps his single platter with goats' 
cheese 

And scarlet berries ; or like any man 



332 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Who loves but one, and so gives all at 

once, 
Because he has it, rather than because 
He counts it worthy. Thus, my father 

gave ; 
And thus, as did the women formerly 
By young Achilles, when they pinned 

the veil 
Across the boy's audacious front, and 

swept 
Witli tuneful laughs the silver-fretted 

rocks. 
He wrapt his little daughter in his large 
Man's doublet, careless did it fit or no. 



But, after I had read for memor}', 

I read for hope. The path my father's 
foot 

Had trod me out, which suddenly broke 
off, 

(Wliat time he dropped the wallet of the 
flesh 

And passed) alone I carried on, and set 

My child-heart 'gainst the thorny under- 
wood, 

To reach the grassy shelter of the trees. 

Ah, babe i' the wood, without a brother- 
babe ! 

My own self-pity, like the red-breast 
bird. 

Flies back to cover all that past with 
leaves. 

Sublimest danger, over which none 

weeps, 
Wlien any young wayfaring soul goes 

forth 
Alone, unconscious of the perilous road. 
The day-sun dazzling in his limpid eyes, 
To thrust his own way, he an alien, 

llnough 
Tlie world of books ! Ah, you ! — you 

think it fine, 
You clap hands — ' A fair day ! ' — you 

cheer him on. 
Aft if the worst, could happen, were to 

rest 
Too long beside a fountain. Yet, be- 
hold', 
Beliold ! -the world of books is still the 

world ; 
And worldlings in it are less merciful 
And more puissant. For the wicked 

there 



Are winged like angels. Every knife 

that strikes, 
Is ed^ed from elemental fire to assail 
A spiritual life. The beautiful seems 

right 
By force of beauty, and the feeble wrong, 
Because of weakness. Power is justi- 
fied, 
Though armed against St. Michael. 

Many a crown 
Covers bald foreheads. In the book- 
world, true, 
There's no lack, neither, of God's saints 

and kings. 
That shake the ashes of the grave aside , 
From their calm locks, and undiscomfited 
Look steadfast truths against Time's 

changing mask. 
True, many a prophet teaches in thei 

roads ; 
True, many a seer pulls down the flam- 
ing heavens 
Upon his own head in strong martyr 

dom. 
In order to light men a moment's space. 
But stay .'—who judges?— who distin-^ 

guishes 
'Twixt Saul and Nahash justly, at first { 

sight. 
And leaves king Saul precisely at the 

sin, 
To serve king David? who discerns at 

once 
The sound of the trumpets, when tlie 

trumpets blow 
For Alaric as well as Chariemagne ? 
Who judges wizards, and can tell true 

seers 
From conjurors? The child, there? 

Would you leave 
That child to wander in a battle-field 
And push his innocent smile against the 

guns? 
Or even in a catacomb . . . his torch 
Grown ragged in the fluttering air, and 

all 
The dark a-mutter round him ? not a 

child. 

I read books bad and good— some bad 

and good 
At once : (good aiirjs not always make 

good books ; 
Well-tempered spades turn up ill-smelN 

ing soils 



AURORA LEIGH. 



333 



In digging vineyards, even) books, that 

prove 
God's being so definitely, that man's 

doubt 
Grows self-defined the other side the line, 
Made Atheist by suggestion; moral 

books. 
Exasperating to license ; genial books, 
Discouniing from the human dignity ; 
And merry books, which set you weep- 
ing when 
The sun shines,— ay, and melancholy 

books, 
Which make you laugh that any one 

should weep 
In this disjointed life for one wrong 

more. 

The world of books is still the world, I 

write, 
And both worlds have God's providence, 

thank God, 
To keep and hearten : with some strug- 
gle, indeed. 
Among the breakers, some hard swim- 

mnig through 
The deeps— I lost breath in my soul 

sometimes, 
And cried, ' God save me if there's any 

God,' 
But, even so, God saved me ; and being 

dashed 
From error on to error, every turn 
Still brought me nearer to the central 

truth. 



I thought so. All this anguish in the 
thick 

Of men's opinions . . press and coun- 
terpress. 

Now up, now down, now underfoot, and 
now 

Emergent . . all the best of it, perhaps, 

But throws you back upon a noble trust 

And use of your own instinct, — merely 
proves ^ 

Pure reason stronger than bare infer- 
ence 

At strongest. Try it, — fix against heav- 
en's wall 

Your scaling ladders of school logic — 
mount 

Step by step ! — Siglu goes faster ; that 
still ray 



Which strikes out from you, how, you 
cannot tell, 

And why, you know not — (did you crim- 
inate. 

That such as you, indeed, should ana- 
lyse ?) 

Goes straight and fast as light, and high 
as God. 



The cygnet finds the water ; but the 
man 

Is born in ignorance of his element, 

And feels out blind at first, disorganised 

Ey sin i' the blood,— his spirit-insight 
dulled 

And crossed by his sensations. Pres- 
ently 

He feels it quicken in the dark some- 
times ; 

When mark, be reverent, be obedient,— 

For such dumb motions of imperfect life 

Are oracles of vital Deity 

Attesting the Hereafter. Let who says 

' The soul's a clean white paper,' rather 
say, 

A palimpsest, a prophet's holograph 

Defiled, erased and covered by a 
monk's, — 

The apocalypse, by a Longus ! poring 
on 

Which obscene text, we may discern 
perhaps 

Some fair, fine trace of what was writtan 
once. 

Some upstroke of an alpha and omega 

Expressing the old Scripture. 

Books, books, books I 
I had found the secret of a garret-room 
Piled high with cases in my father's 

name ; 
Piled high, packed large, — where, creep- 
ing m and out 
Among the giant fossils of my past. 
Like some small nimble mouse between 

the ribs 
Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and 

there 
At this or that box, pulling through the 

In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy. 
The first book first. And how I felt it 

beat 
Under my pillow, in the morning's dark. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



An hour before the sun would let me 

read ! 
My books ! 

At last, because the time was ripe, 
I chanced upon the poets. 

As the earth 
Plunges in fury, when the internal fires 
Have reached and pricked her heart, 

and, throwing flat 
The marts and temples, the triumphal 

gates 
And towers ot observation, clears her- 
self 
To elemental freedom — thus, my soul. 
At poetry's divine first finger touch, 
Let go conventions and sprang up sur- 
prised, 
Convicted of the great eternities 
Before t\vo worlds. 

What's this, Aurora Leigh, 
You write so of the poets, and not laugh ? 
Those virtuous liars, dreamers after 

dark, 
Exaggerators of the sun and moon. 
And soothsayers in a tea-cup? 

I write so 
Of the only truth-tellers, now left to 

God, 
The only speakers of essential truth, 
Opposed to relative, comparative, 
And temporal truths ; tlie only holders 

by 
His sun-skirts, through conventional 

grey glooms ; 
The only teachers who instruct mankind. 
From just a shadow on a chnrnel wall. 
To find man's veritable stature out. 
Erect, sublime, — the measure of a man. 
And that's the measure of an angel, 

says 
The apostle. Ay, and while your com- 
mon men 
Lay telegraphs, gauge railroads, reign, 

reap, dine. 
And dust the tiaunty carpets of the world 
For kings to walk on, or our president. 
The poet suddenly will catch them up 
With his voice like a thunder . . ' This 

is soul, 
This is life, this word is being said in 

heaven. 
Here's God down on us ! what are you 

about ?' 
How all those workers start amid their 
work, 



Look round, look up, and feel, a mo- 
ment's space. 

That carpet-dusting, though a pretty 
trade, 

Is not the imperative labour after all. 

My own best poets, am I one with you, 
'J'hat thus I love you, — or but one 

through love ? 
Does all this smell of thyme about my 

teet 
Conclude my visit to your holy hill 
In personal presence, or but testify 
The rustling of your vesture through my 

dreams 
With influent odours? When my joy 

and pain. 
My thought and aspiration, like tl»e 

stops 
Of pipe or flute, are absolutely dumb 
Unless melodious, do you play on me. 
My pipers, — and if, sooth, you did not 

blow, 
Would no sound come ? or is the music 

mine, 
As a man's voice or breath is called his 

own, 
Imbreathed by the Life-breather ? 

There's a doubt 
For cloudy seasons ! 

But the sun was high 
When first I felt my pulses set them- 
selves 
For concord ; when the rhythmic turbu- 
lence 
Of blood and brain swept outward upon 

words. 
As wind upon the alders, blanching 

them 
By turning up their under-natures till 
They trembled in dilation. O delight 
And triumph of the poet,— who would 

say 
A man's mere *yes,' a woman's common 

' no,' 
A little human hope of that or this, 
And says the word so that it bums you 

through 
With a special revelation, shakes the 

heart 
Of all the men and women in the world. 
As if one came back from the dead and 

spoke, 
With eyes too happy, a familiar thing 



AURORA LEIGH. 



333 



Become divine i' the utterance ! while 

for liim 
The poet, speaker, he expands witii 

joy : 
The palpitating angel in his flesh 
Thrills inly with consenting fellowship 
To those inminieroiis spirits who sun 

themselves 
Outside of time. 

O life, O poetry, 
—Which means life in lite ! cognisant of 

life 
Beyond this blood-beat, — passionate for 

truth 
Bevond these senses, — poetry, my life, 
My eagle, with both grappling feet still 

hot 
From Zeus's thunder, who has ravished 

me 
Away from all the shepherds, sheep, and 

dogs. 
And set me in the Olympian roar and 

round 
Of luminous faces, for a cupbearer, 
To keep the mouths of all the godheads 

moist 
For everlasting laughters, — I, myself 
Half drunk across the beaker with their 

eyes ! 
How those gods look ! 

Enough so, Ganymede. 
We shall not bear above a round or 

two — 
We drop the golden cup at Here's foot 
And swoon back to the earth,— and find 

ourselves 
Face-down among the pine-cones, cold 

with dew, 
While the dogs bark, and many a shep- 
herd scoffs, 
• What's come now to the youth ? ' Such 

ups and downs 
Have poets. 

Am I such indeed ? The name 
Is royal, and to sign it like a queen. 
Is what I dare not,— though some royal 

blood 
Would seem to tingle in me now and 

then. 
With sense of power and ache,— with 

imposthumes 
And manias usual to the race. How- 

beit 
^ dare not : 'tis too easy to go mad, 
ind ape a Bourbon in a crown ot straws ; 



The thing's too common. 

Many fervent souls 
Strike rhyme on rhyme, who would strike 

steel on steel 
If steel had offered, in a restless heat 
Of doing something. Many tender souls 
Have strung their losses on a rhyming 

thread. 
As children, cowslips :— the more pains 

they take. 
The work more withers. Young men, 

ay, and maids, 
Too often sow their wild oats in tame 

verse. 
Before they sit down under their own 

vine 
And live for use. Alas, near all the 

birds 
Will sing at dawn, — and yet we do not 

take 
The chaffering swallow for the holy lark. 

In those days, though, I never analysed, 

Not even myself Analysis comes late. 

You catch a sight of Nature, earliest, 

In full fron't sun-face, and your eyelids 
wink 

And drop before the wonder of 't ; you 
miss 

The form, through seeing the light. I 
lived, those days. 

And wrote because I lived— unlicensed 
else: 

My heart beat in my brain. Life's vio- 
lent flood 

Abolished bounds, — and, which my 
neighbour's field. 

Which mine, what mattered? It is thus 
in youth 

We play at leap-frog over the god Term ; 

The love within us and the love without 

Are mixed, confounded ; if we are loved 
or love. 

We scarce distinguish: thus with other 
power ; 

Being acted on and acting seem the 
same: 

In that first onrush of life's chariot- 
wheels. 

We know not if the forests move or we. 

And so, like most young poets, in a 

flush 
Of individual life I poured myself 
Along the veins of others, and achieved 



336 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Mere lifeless imitations of live verse. 

And made tlie living answer for tlie 
dead. 

Profaning nature. ' Toucii not, do not 
taste. 

Nor handle,'— we're too legal, who write 
young : 

We beat the phorminx till we hurt our 
tluimbs, 

As if still ignorant ot counterpoint; 

We call the Muse . . 'O Muse, benig- 
nant Muse ! ' — 

As if we had seen her purple-braided 
head 

With the eyes in it, scart between the 
bouy,hs 

As often as a stag's. What make-be- 
lieve, 

With so much earnest ! what effete re- 
sults, 

From virile efforts ! what cold wire- 
drawn odes. 

From such white heats ! — bucolics, where 
tlie cow 

Would scare the writer if tliey splashed 
tlie mud 

In lasiiing off the flies, — didactics, driv- 
en 

Against the heels of what the master 
said ; 

And counterfeiting epics, shrill witli 
trumps 

A babe might blow between two strain- 
ing cheeks 

Of bubbled rose, to make his mother 
laugh ; 

And elegiac griefs, and songs of love. 

Like cast-off nosegays picked up on tlie 
road. 

The worse for being warm : all these 
things, writ 

On happy mornings, with a morning 
heart. 

That leaps for love, is active for re- 
solve. 

Weak for art only. Oft, the ancient 
forms 

Will tlirill, indeed, in carrying the young 
blood. 

I'he wine-skins, now and then, a little 
warped. 

Will crack even, as the new wine gurgles 
in. 

Spare the old bottles I — spill not the new 
wine. 



By Keat's soul, the man who never- 
stepped 
In gradual progress like another man, 
But, turning grandly on iiis central self, 
Ensphered himself in twenty perfect \ 

years. 
And died, not young, — (the life of a long 

life, 
Distilled to a mere drop, falling like a 

tear 
Upon the world's cold cheek to make it 

burn 
For ever ;) by that strong excepted soul, 
I count it strange, and hard to under- -j 

stand 
That neatly all young poets should write : 

old ; 
That Pope was sexagenary at sixteen, 
And beardless Byron academical, 
And so with others. It may be, per- 

liaps, 
Such have not settled long and deep 

enough 
In trance, to attain to clairvoyance, — and 

still 
The memory mixes with the vision, 

spoils. 
And works it turbid. 

Or perliaps, again ^ 
In order to discover the Muse-Sphinx, . i 
The melancholy desert must sweep | 

round, | 

Behind you as before. — 

For me, I wrote 
False poems, like tlie rest, and thought ' 

them true, | 

Because myself was true in writing them. ' 
I peradventure have writ true ones since j 
With less complacence. 

But I could not hide 
My quickening inner life from those at 

watch. 
They saw a light at a window now and 

then. 
They had not set there. Who had set it 

there ? 

My father's sister started when she 

caught 
My soul agaze in my eyes. She could 

not say 
I had no business with a sort of soul, 
I'ut plainly she objected. — and demurred 
That souls were dangerous things to 

carry straight 



AURORA LEIGH. 



337 



Throuch all the spilt saltpetre of the 
world. 

She said sometimes, ' Aurora, have you 

done 
Your task this morning? — have you read 

that book ? 
And are you ready for the crochet 

here ?' — 
As if she said, ' I know there's some- 
thing wrong ; 
I know I have not ground you down 

enough 
To flatten and bake you to a wholesome 

crust 
For household uses and proprieties, 
Before the rain has got into my barn 
And set the grains a-sprouting. What, 

you're green 
With out-door impudence? you almost 

grow ? ' 
To whicli I answered, ' Would she hear 

my task, 
And verify my abstract of the book ? 
Or sliould I sit down to the crochet 

work ? 
Was such her pleasure?' . . Then I 

sate and teased 
The patient needle till it spilt the thread 
Which oozed off from it in meandering 

lace 
From hour to hour. I was not, there- 
fore, sad ; 
My soul was singing at a work apart 
Behind the wall of sense, as safe from 

harm 
As sings the lark when sucked up out of 

sight, 
In vortices of glory and blue air. 

And so, through forced work and spon- 
taneous work. 

The inner life informed the outer life. 

Reduced the irregular blood to settled 
rhythms, 

Made cool the forehead with fresh- 
sprinkling dreams, < 

And, rounding to the spheric soul the 
thin 

Pined body, struck a colour up the 
cheeks, 

Thoi:gh somewhat faint. I clenched my 
brows across 

My blue eyes greatening in the looking- 
glass, 



And said, ' We'll live, Aurora I we'll be 

strong. 
The dogs are on us — but we will not die. 

Whoever lives true life, will love true 
love. 

I learnt to love that England. Very 
oft. 

Before the day was born, or otherwise 

Through secret windings of the after- 
noons, 

I threw my hunters off and plunged my- 
self 

Among the deep hills, as a hunted stag 

Will take the waters, shivering with the 
fear 

And passion of the course. And when 
at last 

Escaped,— so many a green slope built 
on slope 

Betwixt me and the enemy's house be- 
hind, 

I dared to rest, or wander, — in a rest 

Made sweeter for the step upon the 
grass, — 

And view the ground's most gentle dim- 
plement, 

(As if God's finger touched but did not 
press 

In making England) such an up and 
down 

Of verdure,— nothing too much up or 
down, 

A ripple of land ; such little hills, the 
sky 

Can stoop to tenderly and the wheatfields 
climb ; 

Such nooks of valleys, lined with orchi- 
ses, 

Fed full of noises by invisible streams ; 

And open pastures, where you scarcely 
tell 

Wiiite daisies from white dew, — at inter- 
vals 

The mythic oaks and elm-trees standing 
out 

Selfpoisedupontheirprodigy of shade, — 

I thought my father's- land was worthy 
too 

Of being my Shakspeare's. 

Very oft alone, 

Unlicensed ; not unfrequently with leave 

To walk the third with Romney and his 
friend 

Tiie rising painter, Vincent Carrington, 



33S 



AURORA LEIGH, 



Whom men judge hardly as bee-bon- 
neted. 
Because he holds that, paint a body 

well, 
You paint a soul by implication, like 
The grand first. Master. Pleasant 

walks ! for if 
He said . . ' When I was last in Ita- 
ly '• • 
It sounded as an instrument that's 

played 
Too far off for the tune — and yet it's 

fine 
To listen. 

Ofter we walked only two, 
It' cousin Romney pleased to walk with 

me. 
We read, or talked, or quarrelled, as it 

chanced : 
We were not lovers, nor even friends 

well-matched. 
Say rather, scholars upon different 

tracks, 
And thinkers disagreed ; he, overfull 
Of what is, and I, haply, overbold 
For what might be. 

But then the thrushes sang. 
And shook my pulses and the elms' new 

leaves, — 
At which I turned, and held my finger 

up, 
And bade him mark that, howsoe'er the 

world 
Went ill, as he related, certainly 
The thrushes still sang in it. At the 

word 
His brow would soften, — and he bore 

with me 
In melancholy patience, not unkind, 
While breaking into voluble ecstacy 
I flattered all the beauteous country 

round. 
All poets use . . the skies, the clouds, 

the fields, 
The happy violets hiding from the roads 
The primroses run down to, carrying 

gold. 
The tangled hedgerows, where the cows 

pusli out 
Impatient horns and tolerant churning 

mouths 
'Twixt dripping ash-boughs, — hedgerows 

all alive 
With birds and gnats and large white 

butterflies 



Which look as if the May-flower had 
caught life 

And palpitated forth upon the wind, 

Hills, vales, woods, netted in a silver 
mist. 

Farms, granges, doubled up among the 
hills. 

And cattle grazing in the watered vales. 

And cottage chimneys smoking from the 
woods. 

And cottage-gardens smelling every- 
where, 

Confused with smell of orchards. ' See,' 
I said, 

' And see ! is God not with us on the 
earth ? 

And shall we put him down by aught we 
do? 

Who says there's nothing for the poor 
and vile 

Save poverty and wickedness ? behold ! ' 

And ankle-deep in English grass I leap- 
ed. 

And clapped my hands, and called all 
very fair. 

In the beginning when God called all 

good. 
Even then was evil near us, it is writ. 
But we indeed who call things good and 

fair, 
The evil is upon us while we speak ; 
Deliver us from evil, let us pray. 



SECOND BOOK. 

Times followed one another. Came a 

morn 
I stood upon the brink of twenty years, 
And looked before and after, as I stood 
Woman and artist, — either incomplete. 
Both credulous of completion. There I 

held 
The whole creation in my little cup. 
And smiled with thirsty lips before I 

drank 
' Good health to you and me, sweet 

neighbour mine, 
And all these peoples.' 

I was glad, that day ; 
The June was in me, with its multitudes 
Of nightingales all singing in the dark, 
And rosebuds reddening wiiere the calyx 

split. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



339 



I felt so youns, so strong; so sure of 
God ! 

So glad, I could not clioose be very wise ! 

And, old at twenty, was inclined to pull 

R!y childhood backward in a childish 
jesi 

To see the face oft once more, and fare- 
well ! 

In which fantastic mood I bounded forth 

At early morning, — would not wait so 
long 

As even to snatch my bonnet by the 
strings, 

But, brushing a green trail across the 
lawn 

With my gown m the dew, took will and 
way 

Among the acacias of the shrubberies, 

To fly my fancies in tiie open air 

And keep my birtliday, till my aunt 
awoke 

To stop good dreams. Meanwhile I 
murmured on 

As honeyed bees keep humming to them- 
selves ; 

' The worthiest poets have remained un- 
crowned 

Till death has bleached their foreheads to 
the bone. 

And so with me it must be, unless I 
prove 

Unworthy of the grand adversity, 

And certainly I would not fail so much. 

What, therefore, if 1 crown myself to-day 

In sport, not pride, to learn the feel of it. 

Before my brows be numbed as Dante's 
own 

To all the tender pricking of such 
leaves ? 

Such leaves ! what leaves? ' 

I pulled the branches down. 

To choose from. 

' Not the bay ! I choose no bay ; 

The fates deny us if we are overbold : 

Nor myrtle — which means chiefly love ; 
and love 

Is something asvful which one dares not^ 
touch 

So early o' mornings. This verbena 
strains 

The point of passionate fragrance ; and 
hard by. 

This guelder rose, at far too slight a beck 

Of the wind, will toss about her flower- 
apples. 



Ah--there's my choice,— that ivv on the 

wall. 
That headlong ivy ! not a leaf will <;row 
But thinking of a wreath. Large leaves, 

smooth leaves. 
Serrated like my vines, and half as green. 
I like such ivy ; bold to leap a height 
'Twas strong to climb ! as good to grow 

on graves 
As twist about a thyrsus ; pretty too, 
(And that's not ill) when twisted round a 

comb.' 
Thus speaking to myself, half singing it. 
Because some thoughts are fashioned 

like a bell 
To ring with once being touched, I drew 

a wreatli 
Drenched, blinding me with dew, across 

my brow 
And fastening it behind so, . . turning 

faced 
. . My public ! — cousin Romney — with 

a mouth 
Twice graver than his eyes. 

I stood there fixed — 
My arms up, like the caryatid, sole 
Of some abolished temple, helplessly 
Persistent in a gesture which derides 
A former purpose- Yet m> blush was 

flame, 
As if from flax, not stone. 

' Aurora Leigh, 
The earliest of Aurora's ! ' 

Hand stretched out 
I clasped, as shipwrecked men will clasp 

a hand. 
Indifferent to the sort of palm. The 

tide 
Had caught me at my pastime, writing 

down 
My foolish name too near upon the sea 
Which drowned me with a blush as fool- 
ish. ' You, 
My cousin ! ' 

The smile died out in his eyes 
And dropped upon his lips, a cold dead 

weight, 
For just a moment . . ' Here's a book 

I found ! 
No name writ on it — poems, by the 

form ; 
Some Greek upon the margin, — lady's 

Greek, 
Without the accents. Read it ? Not a 

word. 



340 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I saw at once the thing had witchcraft 

in't, 
Whereof the reading calls up dangerous 

spirits ; 
I rather bring it to the witch.* 

' My book 1 
You found it ' . . 

* In the hollow by the stream 
That beach leans down into — of which 

you said 
The Oread in it has a Naiad's heart 
And pines for waters.' 

' Thank you.' 

' Thanks to yoti, 
My cousin ! that I have seen you not too 

much 
Witch, scholar, poet, dreamer, and the 

rest. 
To be a woman also.' 

Vr'i<h a glance 
The smile rose in his eyes again, and 

touched 
The ivy on my forehead, light as air. 
I answered gravely, ' Poets needs must 

be 
Or men or women — more's the pity.' 

' Ah, 
But men, and still less women, happily, 
Scarce need be poets. Keep to the 

green wreath. 
Since even dreaming of the stone and 

bronze 
Brings headaches, pretty cousin, and 

defiles 
The clean white morning dresses.' 

' So you judge ! 
Because I love the beautiful, I must 
Love pleasure chiefly, and be over- 
charged 
For ease and whiteness. Well— you 

know the world. 
And only miss your cousin ; 'tis not 

much. 
But learn this : I would rather take my 

part 
With God's Dead, who afford to walk in 

white 
Vet spread his glory, than keep quiet 

here. 
And gather up my feet from even a 

step. 
For fear to soil my gown in so much 

dust. 
I choose to walk at all risks.— Here, if 
heads 



That hold a rhythmic thought, must act 

perforce 
For my part I choose headaches,— and 

to-day's 
My birthday.' 

' Dear Aurora, choose instead 
To cure them. You have balsams.' 

' I perceive 
The headache is too noble for my se:t. 
You think the heartache would sound 

decenter, 
Since that's the woman's special, propef 

ache. 
And altogether tolerable, except 
To a woman.' 

Saying which, I loosed my wreath, 
And swinging it beside me as I walked. 
Half petulant, half playful, as we walked, 
I sent a sidelong look to find his 

thought, — 
As falcon set on falconer's finger may. 
With sidelong head, and startled, braving 

eye, 
Which means, ' You'll see— you'll see ! 

I'll soon take flight — 
You shall not hinder.' He, as shaking 

out 
His hand and answering, ' Fly then,' did 

not speak, 
Except by such a gesture. Silently 
We paced, until, just coming into si!:l)t 
Of the house-windows, he abruptly 

caught 
At one end of the swinging wreath, and 

said, 
Aurora !' There I stopped short, breath 

and all. 

' Aurora, let's be serious, and throw by 
This game of head and heart. Life 

means, be sure. 
Both heart and head, — both active, both 

complete, 
And both in earnest. Men and women 

make 
The world, as head and heart mnl<e 

huinan life. 
Work man, work woman, since there's 

work to do 
In this beleaguered earth, for head and 

heart. 
And thought can never do the work of 

love : 
But work for ends, I mean for uses : 

not 



AURORA LEIGH. 



34> 



For such sleek fringes (do you call them 

ends ; 
Siill less God's glory) as we sew our- 
selves 
Upon tlie velvet of those baldaquins 
Held 'twixt us and the sun. That book 

()[" yours, 
1 have not read a page of; but I toss 
A rose up— it falls calyx down, you see ! 
The chances are that, being a woman, 

young, 
And pure, with such a pair of large, calm 

eyes. 
You write as well . . and ill • . upon the 

whole, 
As other women. If as well, what then ? 
If even a little better, . . still what then ? 
We want tlie Best in art now, or no art. 
The time is done for iacile settings up 
Of minnow gods, nymphs here and 

tritons there ; 
The polytheists have gone out in God, 
That unity of Bests. No best, no God ! 
And so with art, we say. Give art's 

divine. 
Direct, indubitable, real as grief, — 
Or leave us to the grief we grow our- 
selves 
Divine by overcoming with mere hope 
And most prosaic patience. You, you 

are young 
As Eve with nature's daybreak on her 

face ; 
But this same world you are come to, 

dearest coz, 
Has done with keeping birthdays, saves 

her wreaths 
To hang upon her ruins, — and forgets 
To ryhme the cry with which she still 

beats back 
Those savage, hungry dogs that hunt her 

down 
To the empty grave ot Christ. The 

world's hard pressed ; 
Tlie sweat of labour in the early curse 
Has (turning acrid in six thousand years) 
Bt:come the sweat of torture. Who has 

time. 
An hour's time . . think ! . . to sit up- 
on a bank 
And hear the cymbal tinkle in white 

hands? 
When Egypt's slain, 1 say, let Miriam 

sing ! — 
Before . . whore's Moses?* 



' Ah— exactly that 
Where's Moses ? — is a Moses to be 

found? 
You'll seek him vainly in the bulrushes, 
While I in vain touch cymbals. Yet 

concede, 
Such sounding brass has done some ac- 
tual good 
(The application in a woman's hand, 
If that were credible, being scarcely 

spoilt,) 
In colonising beehives.' 

•There it is ! — 
You play beside a death-bed like a child, 
Yet measure to yourself a prophet's 

place 
To teach the living. None of all these 

things. 
Can women understand. You generalise 
Oh, nothing! -not even grief! Your 

quick-breathed hearts, 
So sympathetic to the personal pang. 
Close on each separate knife-stroke, 

yielding up 
A whole life at each wound : incapable 
Of deepening, widening a large lap of 

life 
To hold the world-full woe. The human 

race 
To you means, such a child, or such a 

man. 
You snw one morning waiting in the 

cold. 
Beside that gate, perhaps. You gather 

up 
A few such cases, and when strong some- 
times 
Will write of factories and of slaves, as 

if 
Your father were a negro, and your son 
A spinner in the mills. All's yours and 

you. 
All, coloured with your blood, or other- 
wise 
Just nothing to you. Why, I call you 

hard 
To general suffering. Here's the world 

halt blind 
With intellectual light, half brutalised 
With civilisation, having caught the 

plague 
In silks from Tarsus, shnekmg eas. and 

west 
Along a thousand railroads, mad with 

pain 



342 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And sin too I . . does one woman of you 

all, 
(You wlio weep easily) grow pale to see 
This tiger shake his cage ? — does one of 

you 
Stand still from dancing, stop from 

stringing pearls, 
And pine and die because of the great 

sum 
Of universal anguish ?— Show me a tear 
Wet as Cordelia's, in eyes bright as 

yours, 
Because the world is mad ! You cannot 

count. 
That you should weep for this account, 

not you ! 
You weep for what you know. A red- 
haired child 
Sick in a fever, if you touch him once, 
Though but so little as with a finger-tip, 
Will set you weeping ; but a million 

sick . . 
You could as soon weep for the rule of 

three. 
Or compound fractions. Therefore, this 

same world 
Uncomprehended by you, must remain 
Uninfluenced by you. Women as you 

are. 
Mere women, personal and passionate, 
You give us doating mothers, and perfect 

wives. 
Sublime Madonnas, and enduring saints ! 
We get no Christ from you, — and verily 
We shall not get a poet, in my mind.' 

' With which conclusion you conclude ' . . 

' But this— 

That you, Aurora, with the large live 

brow 
And steady eyelids, cannot condescend 
To play at art, as children play at 

swords. 
To show a pretty spirit, chiefly admired 
Because true action is impossible. 
You never can be satisfied with praise 
Which men give women when they judge 

a book 
Not as mere work, but as mere woman's 

work. 
Expressing the comparative respect 
Which means the absolute scorn. 'Oh, 

excellent ! 
• What grace ! what facile turns ! what 

fluent sweeps I 



' What delicate discernm.ent . . almost 

thought ! 
•The book does honour to the sex, we i 

hold. 
'Among our female authors we makci 

room 
' For this fair writer, and congratulate 
'The country that produces in ihese 

times 
' Such women, competent to . . spell.' 

' Stop there ! ' 
I answered — burning through his thread i 

of talk 
With a quick flame of emotion, — ' You : 

have read 
My soul, if not my book, and argue 

well 
I would not condescend . . we will not 

say 
To such a kind of praise, (a worthless 

end 
Is praise of all kinds) but to such a use 
Of holy art and golden life. I am 

young. 
And peradventure weak — you tell me 

so — 
Through being a woman. And, for all 

the rest. 
Take thanks for justice. I would rather 

dance 
At fairs on tight-rope, till the babies 

dropped 
Their gingerbread for joy, — than shift 

the types 
For tolerable verse, intolerable 
To men who act and suffer. Better far 
Pursue a frivolous trade by serious 

means. 
Than a sublime art frivolously.' 

'You 
Choose nobler work than either, O moist 

eyes 
And hurrying lips, and heaving heart ! 

We are young, 
Aurora, you and I. The world . . look 

round . . 
The world, we're come too late, is sv.ol- 

len hard 
With perished generations and their 

sins : 
The civiliser's spade grinds horribly 
On dead men's bones, and cannot turn 

up soil 
That's otherwise than fetid. All suc- 
cess 



AURORA LEIGH. 



M-i 



Proves partial failure ; all advance im- 
plies 
What's left behind; all triumph, some- 
thing crushed 
At the chariot-wheels ; all government, 

some wrong : 
And ricli men make the poor, who curse 

the rich, 
Who agonise together, lich and poor, 
Under and ever, in the social spasm 
And crisis of the ages. Here's an age. 
That makes its own vocation ! here, we 

have stepped 
Across the bounds of time ! here's 

nought to see, 
But just the rich man and 'just Lazarus, 
And both in torments ; with a mediate 

gulph, 
Though not a hint of Abraham's bosom. 

Who, 
Being man, Aurora, can stand calmly by 
And view these things, and never tease 

his soul 
For some great cure? No physic for 

this grief. 
In all the earth and heavens too ?' 

' You believe 
In God, for your part?— ay? that He 

who makes. 
Can make good things from ill things, 

best from worst. 
As men plant tulips upon dunghills 

when 
They wish them finest?' 

' True. A death-heat is 
The same as life-heat, to be accurate ; 
And in all nature is no death at all. 
As men account of death, as long as God 
Stands witnessing for life perpetually. 
By being just God. That's abstract 

truth, I know. 
Philosophy, or sympathy with God : 
But I, I sympathise with man, not God, 
I think I was a man for chiefly this ; 
And when I stand beside a dying bed, 
It's death to me. Observe,— it had not 

much 
Consoled the race of mastodons to know 
Before they went to fossil, that anon 
Their place would quicken with the ele- 
phant ; 
They were not elephants but mastodons: 
And I, a man, as men are now and not 
As men may be hereafter, feel with men 
In the agonising present.' 



* Is it so,' 
I said, * my cousin ? is the world so bad, 
While I hear nothing of it through the 

trees ? 
The world was always evil, — but so bad ?' 

' So bad, Aurora. Dear, my soul is grey 
With poring over the long sum of ill : 
So much for vice, so much for discontent, 
So much for the necessities of power, 
So much for the connivances of fear, 
Coherent in statistical despairs 
With such a total of distracted life, . . 
To see it down in figures on a page, 
Plain, silent, clear . . as God sees 

through the earth 
The sense of all the graves .... that's 

terrible 
For one who is not God, and cannot 

right 
The wrong he looks on. May I choose 

indeed 
But vow away my years, my means, my 

aims. 
Among the lielpers, if there's any help 
In such a social strait? The common 

blood 
That swings along my veins, is strong 

enough 
To draw me to this duty.' 

Then I spoke. 
' I have not stood long on the strand of 

life, 
And these salt waters have had scarcely 

time 
To creep so high up as to wet my feet. 
I cannot judge these tides — I shall, per- 
haps. 
A woman's always younger than a man 
At equal years, because she is disallowed 
Maturing by the outdoor sun and air. 
And kept in long-clothes past the age to 

walk. 
Ah well, I know you men judge other- 
wise ! 
You think a woman ripens as a peach. 
In the cheeks, chiefly. Pass it to me 

now ; 
I'm young in age, and younger still, I 

think. 
As a woman. But a child may say 

amen 
To a bishop's prayei; and feel the way it 

goes ; 
And I, incapable to loose the knot 



344 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Of social questions, can approve, applaud 
August compassion, christian thoughts 

tliat shoot 
Beyond the vulgar white of personal 

aims. 
Accept my reverence.' 

Tliere he glowed on me 
With all his face and eyes. ' No other 

help?' 
Said he — 'no more than so?' 

'What help?' I asked, 
' You'd scorn my help, — as Nature's self, 

you say, 
Has scorned to put lier music in my 

moutii 
Because a woman's. Do you now turn 

round 
And ask for what a woman cannot give?' 

' For what she only can,' I turn and ask. 
He answered, catching up my hands in 

his, 
And dropping on me from his high-eaved 

brow 
The full weight of his soul, — ' I ask for 

love. 
And tliat, she can ; for life in fellowship 
Through bitter duties — that, I know she 

can ; 
For wifehood . . will she ? ' 

' Now,' I said, ' may God 
Be witness 'twixtj us two ! ' and with the 

word, 
Meseemed I floated into a sudden light 
Above his stature, — ' am I proved too 

weak 
To stand alone, yet strong enough to 

bear 
Such leaners on my shoulder? poor to 

think, 
Yet rich enough to sympathise with 

thought? 
Incompetent to sing, as blackbirds can, 
Yet competent to love, like him ? ' 

I paused : 
Perhaps I darkened, as the light house 

will 
That turns upon the sea. ' It's always 

so! 
Anything does for a wife.' 

'Aurora, dear, 
And dearly honored ' . . he pressed in 

at once 
With eager utterance, — 'you translate 

me ill. 



I do not contradict my thought of you 
Which is most reverent, with another 

thought 
Found less so. If your sex is weak fof ( 

art, 
(And I who said so, did but honour you 
By using truth in courtship) it is strong , 
For life and duty. Place your fecund, 1 

heart 
In mine, and let us blossom for the world 1 
That wants love's colour in the grey of 

time. 
My talk, meanwhile, is arid to you, ay. 
Since all my talk can only set you where 
You look down coldly on the arena- 
heaps 
Of headless bodies, shapeless, indistinct ! 
The Judgment- Angel scarce would find i 

his way 
Through such a heap of generalised dis- - 

tress 
To the individual man with lips and 1 

eyes — 
Much less Aurora. Ah my sweet, come : 

down. 
And hand in hand we'll go where yours i 

shall touch 
These victims, one by one ! till one by / 

one, 
The formless, nameless trunk of every , 

man 
Shall seem to wear a head with hair you i 

know. 
And every woman catch your mother's = 

face 
To melt you into passion.' 

' I am a girl,* 
I answered slowly; ' you do well to name : 
My motlier's face. Though far too ear- - 

ly, alas, 
God's hand did interpose 'twlxt it and 

me, 
I know so much of love, as used to shine c 
In that face and another. Just so much ; 
No more indeed at all. I have not seen 
So much love since, I pray you pardon 

me, 
As answers even to make a marriage 

with 
In this cold land of England. What yon 

love, 
Is not a woman, Romney, but a cause : 
You want a helpmate, not a mistress, sir,! 
A wife to help your ends . . in her uc 

end 1 



AURORA LEIGH. 



345 



Your cause is noble, your ends excellent, 
But 1, being most unworthy of these and 

that, 
Do otherwise conceive of love. Fare- 
well.' 

' Farewell, Aurora ? you reject me thus? ' 
He said. . 

'Sir, you were married long ago, 
Sfou have a wife already whom you love, 
if our social theory. Bless you both, I 

say. 
?OT my part, I am scarcely meek enough 
ro be the handmaid of a lawful spouse. 
3o I look a Hagar, think you ? ' 

' So you jest ! ' 
Nay so, I speak in earnest,' I replied. 
You treat of marriage too much like, at 

least, 
V. chief apostle ; you would bear with 

you 
^ wife . . a sister . . shall we speak it 

out? 
L sister of charity.' 

'Then, must it oe 
ndeed farewell ? And was I so far 

wrong 
n hope and in illusion, when I took 
'he woman to be nobler than the man, 
''ourself the noblest woman,— in the 

use 
md comprehension of what love is,— 

love, 
'hat generates the likeness of itself 
'hrough all heroic duties ? so far wrong, 
n saying bluntly, venturing truth on 

love, 
Come, human creature, love and work 

with me,' — 
nstead ot ' Lady, thou art wondrous 

fair. 
And, where the Graces walk before, the 

M use 
Will follow at the lighting of the eyes, 
And where the Muse walks, lovers 

need to creep : 
Turn round and love me, or I die of 

love.' ' 

Villi quiet indignation I broke in. 

You misconceive the question like a 

man, 
Yho sees a woman as the complement 
)f his sex merely. You forget too much 
.'hat every creature, female as the male, 



Stands single in responsible act and 

thought. 
As also in birth and death. Wlioever 

says 
To a loy^l woman, ' Love and work with 

me,' 
Will get fair answers if the work and 

love. 
Being good themselves, are good for her 

—the best 
She was born for. Women of a softer 

mood, 
Surprised by men when scarcely awake 

to life. 
Will sometimes only hear the first word, 

love, 
And catch up with it any kind of work, 
Indifferent, so that dear love go with it: 
I do not blame such women, though, for 

love. 
They pick much oakum ; earth's fanatics 

make 
Too frequently heaven's saints. But i>ie, 

your work 
Is not the best for, — nor your love the 

best. 
Nor able to commend the kind of work 
For love's sake merely. Ah, you force 

me, sir, 
To be over-bold in speaking of myself, 
I too have my vocation, — work to do. 
The heavens and earth have set me, 

since I changed 
My father's face for theirs, — and, though 

your world 
Were twice as wretched as you represent. 
Most serious work,- most necessary work 
As any of the economists*. Reform, 
Make trade a Christian possibilityj 
And individual right no general wrong ; 
Wipe out earth's furrov/s of the Thine 

and Mine, 
And leave one green for men to play at 

bowls ; 
With innings for them all ! . . what then, 

indeed, 
<If mortals are not greater by the head 
Than any of their prosperities ? what 

then, 
Unless the artist keep up open roads 
Betwixt the seen and unseen, — bursting 

through 
The best of your conventions with his 

best. 
The speakable, imaginable best 



346 



AURORA LEIGH. 



God bids him speak, to prove what lies 

beyond 
Both speech and imagination ? A starved 

man 
Exceeds a fat beast : we'll not barter, 

sir, 
Tlie beautiful for barley. — And, even so, 
1 hold you will not compass your poor 

ends 
Of barley-feeding and material ease, 
Without a poet's individualism 
To work your universal. It takes a 

soul 
To move a body : it takes a high-souled 

man 
To move the masses . . even to a clean- 
er stye : 
It takes tlie ideal, to blow a hair's-breadth 

off 
The dust of the actual.— Ah, your Four- 

iers failed, 
Because not poets enough to understand 
That life develops from within. — For 

me. 
Perhaps lam not worthy, as you say, 
Of work like this . . perhaps a woman's 

soul 
Aspires, and not creates : yet we aspire. 
And yet I'll try out your perhapses, sir ; 
And if I fail . . why, bum me up my 

straw 
Like other false works — I'll not ask for 

grace, 
Your scorn is better, cousin Romnev. I 
Who love my art, could never wish it 

lower 
To suit my stature, I may love my art. 
You'll grant that even a woman may love 

art, 
Seeing that to waste true love on any- 
thing 
Is womanly, past question.' 

I retain 
The very last word which I said that 

day. 
As you the creaking of the door, years 

past. 
Which let upon you such disabling news 
You ever after have been graver. He, 
His eyes, the motions in his silent mouth, 
Were fiery points on which my words 

were caught, 
Transfixed for ever in my memory 
For his sake, not their own. And yet I 

know 



I did not love him . . nor he me . . that's 

sure . . 
And what I said, is unrepented of. 
As truth is always. Yet . . a princely J 

man ! — 1 

If hard to me, heroic for himself! 
He bears down on me through the slant- 
ing years, 
The stronger for the distance. If he 

had loved. 
Ay, loved me, with that retributive.) 

face, . . 
I might have been a common woman i 

now. 
And happier, less known and less left 1 

alone ; 
Perhaps a better woman after all,— 
With chubby children hanging on myy 

neck j 

To keep me low and wise. Ah me, the Si 

vines i 

That bear such fruit, are proud to stoop \ 

with it. , 

The palm stands upright in a realm off] 

sand. 

And I, who spoke the truth then, stand i 

upright, j 

Still worthy of having spoken out thee! 

truth. 
By being content I spoke it, though it set 
Hun there, me here.— O woman's vile 

remorse. 
To hanker after a mere name, a show, 
A supposition, a potential love ! 
Does every man who names love in our i 

lives, 
Become a power for that ? is love's true 

thing 
So much best to us, that what personates 

love 
Is next best? A potential love, for- 
sooth ! 
I'm not so vile. No, no- he cleaves, I 

think. 
This man, this image, . . chiefly for the 

wrong 
And shock Ite gave my life, in finding me I 
Precisely where the devil of my youth I 
Had set me, on those mountain-peaks of 

hope 
All glittering with the dawn-dew, all 

erect 



And famished for the noon,— exclaiming, 
while 



AURORA LEIGH. 



IA,7 



ooked for empire and much tribute, 

' Come, 
liave some worthy work for thee be- 
low, 
me, sweep my barns and keep my 

hospitals, 
id I will pay thee with a current coin 
hich men give women.' 

As we spoke, the grass 
as trod in haste bAide us, and my 

aunt, 
ith smile distorted by the sun, — face, 

voice, 

much at issue with the summer-day 
if you brought a candle out of doors, 
oke in with, ' Romney, here 1— My 

child, entreat 
lur cousin to the house, and have your 

talk, 
girls must talk upon their birthdays. 

Come.' 

; answered for me calmly, with pale 

lips 
lat seemed to motion for a smile in 

vain, 
he talk is ended, madam, where we 

stand. 
)ur brother's daughter has dismissed 

me here ; 
d all my answer can be better said 
meath the trees, than wrong by such a 

word 
)ur house's hospitalities. Farewell.' 

th that he vanished. I could hear 
his heel 

ng bluntly in the lane, as down he 
leapt 

le short way from us. — Then a meas- 
ured speech 

ithdrew me. ' What means this, Au- 
rora Leigh? 

y brother's daughter has dismissed my 
guests ? ' 

he lion in me felt the keeper's voice, 
rough all its quivering dewlaps : I was 

quelled 
fore her, — meekened to the child she 

knew : 
prayed her pardon, said, ' I had little 
thousht 

give dismissal to a guest of hers, 

1 letting go a friend of mine who came 



To take me into service as a wife, — 
No more than that, indeed.' 

' No more, no more ? 
Pray Heaven,' she answered, ' that I was 

not mad. 
I could not mean to tell her to her face 
That Romney Leigh had asked me for a 

wife. 
And I refused him ? ' 

' Did he ask ? ' I said ; 
' I think he rather stooped to take me up 
For certain uses whicli he found to do 
For something called a wife. He never 

asked.' 

' What stuff 1' she answered; 'are they 

queens, these girls? 
They must have mantles, stitched with 

twenty silks. 
Spread out upon the ground, before 

they'll step 
One footstep for the noblest lover born.' 

' But I am born,' I said with firmness, 

'I, 
To walk another way than his, dear 

aunt.' 

'You walk, you walk ! A babe at thir- 
teen months 

Will walk as well as you,' she cried in 
haste, 

' Without a steadying finger Why, you 
child, 

God help you, you are groping in the 
dark. 

For all this sunlight. You suuuose, per- 
haps. 

That you, sole offspring of an opulent 
man, 

Are rich and free to choose a way tu 
walk ? 

You think, and it's a reasonable thought. 

That I beside, being well to do in life. 

Will leave my handful in my niece's 
hand 

When death shall paralyse these fingers? 
Pray, 

Pray, child, — albeit, I know you love me 
not. 

As if you loved me, that I may not die ! 

For when I die and leave you, out vou 
go, 

(Unless I make room for you in my 
grave) 



343 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Unhoused, unfed, my dear, poor broth- 
er's lamb, 
(Ah heaven,— that pains I)— without a 

right to crop 
A single blade of grass beneath these 

trees, 
Or cast a lamb's small shadow on the 

lawn, 
Unfed, unfolded I Ah, my brother, 

here's 
The fruit you planted in your foreign 

loves !— 
Ay, there's the fruit he planted ! never 

look 
Astonished at me with your mother's 

eyes, 
For it was they who set you where you 

are. 
An undowered orphan. Child, your 

father's choice 
Of that said mother, disinherited 
His daughter, his and hers. Men do 

not think 
Oi sons and daughters, when they fall in 

love. 
So much more than of sisters; other- 
wise 
He would have paused to ponder what 

he did, 
And shrunk before that clause in tlie en- 
tail 
Excluding offspring by a foreign wife 
(The clause set np a hundred years ago 
By a Lei^h who wedded a French danc- 
ing-girl 
And had his heart danced over in re- 
turn) 
But this man shrank at nothing, never 

thought 
Of you, Aurora, any more than me— - 
Your mother must have been a pretty 

thing. 
For all the coarse Italian blacks and 

browns. 
To make a good man, which my brother 

was, 
Unchary of the duties to his house : 
l]ut so It fell indeed. Our cousin Vane, 
Vane Leigh, the father of this Romney, 

wrote 
Directly on your birth, to Italy, 
' I ask your baby daughter for niy son 
In whom the entail now merges by the 

law. 
Betroth her to us out of love, instead 



Of colder reasons, and she shall not losej 
By love or law from henceforth '—so he 

wrote ; ! 

A generous cousin, was my cousin Vane. ! 
Remember how he drew you to his kneei 
The year you came here, just before he 

died. 
And hollowed out his hands to hold your 

cheeks, 
And wished them #edder,— you remem- 
ber Vane? 
And now his son who represents our 

house I 

And holds the fiefs and manors in his ■ 

place, 
To whom reverts my pittance when II 

die, 
(Except a few books and a pair of ' 

shawls] 
The boy is generous like him, and pre- 
pared 
To carry out his kindest word and 

thought 
To you, Aurora. Yes, a fine young ■ 

man 
Is Romney Leigh ; although the sun of 1 

youth 
Has shone too straight upon his brain, I 

know. 
And fevered him with dreams of doing { 

good *' ^ 

To good-for-nothing people. But wife 
Will put all right, and stroke his temples 

cool 
With healthy touches' . . 

,1 broke in at that. 
1 could not lift my heavy heart to breathe 
Till then, but then I raised it, and it fell 
In broken words like these — ' No need 

to wait. 
The dream of doing good to . . me at 

least, _ ' 

Is ended, without waiting for a wife 
To cool the fever for him. We've escap- 
ed 
That danger . . thank Heaven for it.' 

' You,' she cried. 
Have got a fever. What, I talk ai.d ■ 

talk ' 

An hour long to you,— I instruct yon 

how 
You cannot eat or drink or stand or sit, 
Or even die, like any decent wretch 
In all this unroofed and unfurnished 

world, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



M<) 



Without your cousin, — and you still 

maintain 
There's room 'twixt him and you, for 

flirting fans 
And running knots in eyebrows I You 

must have 
A pattern lover sighing on his knee : 
You do not count enough a noble heart, 
Above book-patterns, which this very 

morn 
Unclosed itself in two dear fathers' 

names 
To embrace your orphaned life ! fie, fie ! 

But stay, 
I write a word, and counteract this sin.' 

She would have turned to leave me, but 

I clung. 
' O sweet my father's sister, hear my 

word 
Before you write yours. Colisin Vane 

did well, 
And cousin Romney well, — and I well 

too, 
In casting back with all my strength and 

will 
The good they meant me. O my God, 

my God ! 
God meant me good, too, when he hin- 
dered me 
From saying ' yes ' this morning. If you 

write 
A word, it shall be ' no.' I say no, no 1 
I tie up ' no ' upon His altar-horns, 
Quite out of reach of perjury ! At least 
My soul is not a pauper ; I can live 
At least my soul's life, without alms from 

men ; 
And if it must be in heaven instead of 

earth, 
Let heaven look to it, — I am not afraid.' 

She seized my hands with both hers, 

strained them fast. 
And drew her probing and unscrupulous 

eyes 
Right through me, body and heart. ' Yet,"" 

foolish Sweet, 
You love this man. I have watched you 

when he came. 
And when he went, and when we've 

talked of him : 
I am not old for nothing ; I can tell 
The weather-signs of love — you love this 

man.' 



Girls blush sometimes because they are 

alive. 
Half wishing they were dead to save the 

shame. 
The sudden blush devours them, neck 

and brow ; 
They have drawn too near the fire of life, 

like gnats, 
And flare up bodily, wings and all. What 

then ? 
Who's sorry for a gnat . . or girl ? 

I blushed. 
I feel the brand upon my forehead now 
Strike hot, sear deep, as guiltless men 

may feel 
The felon's iron, say, and scorn the 

mark 
Of what they are not. Most illogical 
Irrational nature of our womanhood, 
That blushes one way, feels another 

way. 
And prays, perhaps, another ! After all, 
We cannot be the equal of the male, 
Who rules his blood a little. 

For although 
I blushed indeed, as if I loved the man, 
And her incisive smile, accrediting 
That treason of false witness in my 

blush, 
Did bow me downward like a swathe of 

grass 
Below its level that struck me, — I attest 
The conscious skies and all their daily 

suns, 
I think I loved kim not . . nor then, 

nor since . . 
Nor ever. Do we love the schoolmas- 
ter, 
Being busy in the woods? much less, 

being poor. 
The overseer of the parish? Do we 

keep 
Our love to pay out debts with ? 

White and cold' 
I grew next moment. As my blood re- 
coiled 
From that imputed I^nowiy, I made 
My heart great with it. Then, at last, I 

spoke. 
Spoke veritable words but passionate, 
Too passionate perhaps . . ground up 

with sobs 
To .shapeless endings. She let fall my 
hands, 



350 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And took her smile off, in sedate dis- 
gust. 
As peradventure she had touched a 

snake, — 
A dead snake, mind I— and, turning 

round, replied, 
• We'll leave Italian manners, if you 

please. 
I think you had an English father, child. 
And ought to find it possible to speak 
A quiet ' yes ' or ' no,' like English girls, 
Without convulsions. In another month 
"We'll take another answer . . no, or 

yes.' 
With that, she left me in the garden- 
walk. 

I had a father I yes, but long ago — 

How long it seemed that moment. Oh, 
how far. 

How far and safe, God, dost thou keep 
thy saints 

When onoe gone from us I We may call 
against 

The lighted -windows of thy fair June- 
heaven 

Where all the souls are happy, — and not 
one. 

Not even my father, look from work or 
play 

To ask. ' Who is it that cries after us. 

Below there, in the dusk ?' Yet former- 
ly 

He turned his face upon me quick 
enough, 

If I said 'father.' No-.v I might cry 
loixl : 

The little lark - ,'.ied higher with his 
song 

Than I with crying. Oh, alone, alone,— 

Not troubling any in heaven, nor any on 
earth, 

I stood there in the garden, and looked 
up 

The deaf blue sky that brings the roses 
out 

On such June mornings. 

You who keep account 

Of crisis and transition in this life, 

Set down the first time Nature says 
plain ' no ' 

To some ' yes ' in you, and walks over 
you 

In gorgeous sweeps of scorn. We all be- 
gin 



By singing with the birds and running 

fast 
With June-days, hand in hand ; but once, 

for all, 
The birds must sing against us, and the 

sun 
Strike down upon us like a friend's 

sword caught 
By an enemy to slay us, while we read 
The dear name on the blade which bites 

at us ! — 
That's bitter and convincing : after that, 
We seldom doubt that something in the 

large 
Smooth order of creation, though no 

more 
Than haply a man's footstep, has gone 

wrong. 

Some tears fell down my cheeks, and 

then I smiled, 
As those smile who have no face in the 

world 
To smile back to them. I had lost a 

friend 
In Komney Leigh ; the thing was sure — 

a friend, 
Wiio had looked at me most gently now 

and then. 
And spoken of my favourite books . . 

' our books ' . . 
With such a voice I Well, voice and 

look were now 
More utterly shut out from me, I felt, 
Than even my father's. Romney now 

was turned 
To a benefactor, to a generous man, 
Who had tied himself to marry . . me, 

instead 
Of such a woman, with low timorous lids 
He lifted with a sudden word one day. 
And left, perhaps, for my sake. — Ah, 

self- tied 
By a contract, — male Iphigenia bound 
At a fatal Aulis for the winds to change, 
(But loose him — they'll not change ;) he 

well might seem 
A little cold and dominant in love ! 
He had a right to be dogmatical, 
This poor, good Romney. Love, to him, 

was made 
A simple law-clause. Jf I married him, 
I would not dare to call my soul my own. 
Which so he had bought and paid for: 

every thought 



AURORA LEIGH. 



351 



And every heart-beat down there in tlie 

bill, 
Not one found lionestly deductible 
From any use that pleased him 1 He 

might cut 
My body into coins to give away 
Among his other paupers; change my 

sons, 
Wiiile [ stood dumb as Griseld, for black 

babes 
Or piteous foundlings ; might unques- 
tioned set 
My riglit hand teaching in the Ragged 

Schools, ■ 
My left hand washing in the Public 

Baths, 
What time my angel of the Ideal 

stretched 
Both his to me in vain ! I could not 

claim 
The poor right of a mouse in a trap, to 

squeal, 
And take so much as pity from myself 

Farewell, good Romney I if I loved you 

even, 
I could but ill afford to let you be 
So geierous to me. Farewell, friend, 

since friend 
Betwixt us two, forsooth, must be a 

word 
So henvily overladen. And, since help 
Must come to me from those who love 

me not. 
Farewell, all helpers — I must help my- 
self, 
And am alone from henceforth. — Then I 

stooped, 
And lifted the soiled garland from the 

earth, 
And set it on my head as bitterly 
As when the Spanish monarch crowned 

the bones 
Of his dead love. So be it. I preserve 
That crown still, — in the drawer there ! 

'twas the first ; 
The rest are like it ;— those Olympian 

crowns, 
We run for, till we lose sight of the sun 
In the dust of the racing chariots I 

After that, 
Before the evening fell, I had a note 
Which ran, — ' Aurora, sweet Chaldean, 
you read 



My meaning backward like your eastern 

books. 
While I am from the west, dear. Read 

me now 
A little plainer. Did j'ou hate me quite 
But yesterday? I loved you for my part i 
I love you. If I spoke untenderly 
This morning, my beloved, pardon it ; 
And comprehend me that I love you so 
I set you on the level of my soul, 
And overwashed you with the bittet 

brine 
Of some habitual thoughts. Henceforth, 

my flower. 
Be planted out of reach of any such, 
And lean the side you please, with all 

your leaves ! 
Write v\ Oman's verses and dream wo- 
man's dreams ; 
But let me feel your perfume in my 

home. 
To make my sabbath after working- 
days ; 
Bloom out your youth beside me,— be my 
wife.' 



I wrote in answer — ' We, Chaldeans, dis- 
cern 
Still farther than we read. I know your 

heart. 
And shut it like the holy book it is, 
Reserved tor mild-eyed saints to pore 

upon 
Betwixt their prayers at vespers. Well, 

you're right, 
T did not surely hate you yesterday; 
And yet I do not love you enough to- 
day 
To wed you, cousin Romney. Take this 

word. 
And let it stop you as a generous man 
Frorn speaking farther. You may tease, 

indeed. 
And blow about my feelings, or my 

leaves, — 
And here's my aunt will help you with 

east winds. 
And break a stalk, perhaps, tormenting 

me : 
But certain flowers grow near as deep as 

trees. 
And, cousin, you'll not move my root, 

not you. 
With all your confluent storms. Then 

let me grow 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Within my wayside hedge, and pass your 
way ! 

This flower has never as much to say to 
you 

As the antique tomb whicli said to trav- 
ellers, ' Pause, 

' Siste, viator.' ' Ending thus, I signed. 

The next week passed in silence, so the 

next, 
A.nd several after : Romney did not 

come, 
Nor my aunt chide me. I lived on and 

on, 
As if my heart were kept beneath a 

glass. 
And everybody stood, all eyes and ears. 
To see and hear it tick. I could not sit, 
Nor walk, nor take a book, nor lay it 

down, 
Not sew on steadily, nor drop a stitch 
And a sigh with it, but I felt her looks 
Still cleaving to me, hke the sucking 

asp 
To Cleopatra's breast, persistently 
Tiirough the intermittent pantings. Be- 
ing observed. 
When observation is not sympathy, 
Is just being tortured. If she said a 

word, 
A ' thank you,' or an ' if it please you, 

dear,' 
Slie meant a commination, or, at best, 
An exorcism against the devildom 
Which plainly neld me. So with all the 

house. 
Susannah could not stand and twist my 

hair, 
Without such glancing at the lookiirg- 

glass 
To see my face there, that she missed 

the plait. 
And John,— I never sent my plate for 

soup, 
Or did not send it, but the foolish John 
Resolved the problem, 'twixt liis nap- 

kined thumbs. 
Of what was signified by taking soup 
Or choosing mackerel. Neighbors who 

dropped in 
On morning visits, feeling a joint wrong, 
Smiled ndmonition, sate mieasilv. 
And talked with measured, emphasised 

reserve, 
Of parish news, like doctors to the sick. 



When not called in, — as if, with leave to 

speak. 
They might say something. Nay, the 

very dog 
Would watch me from his sun patch on 

the floor. 
In alternation with the large black fly 
Not yet in reach of snapping. So 1 

lived. 

A Roman died so : smeared with honey, 

teased 
By insects, stared to torture by the 

noon : 
And many patient souls 'neath English 

roofs 
Have died like Romans. I, in looking 

back, 
Wish only, now, I had borne the plague 

of all 
With meeker spirits than were rife in 

Rome. 

For, on the sixth week, the dead sea 

broke up. 
Dashed suddenly through beneath the 

heel of Him 
Who stands upon the sea and earth, and 

swears 
Time shall be nevermore. The clock 

struck nine 
Tlint morning too--no lark was out of 

tune ; 
'i'he hidden farms among the hills breath- 
ed straight 
Tlieir smoke toward the heaven : the 

lime tree scarcely stirred 
Beneath the blue weight of the cloudless 

sky. 
Though still the July air came floating 

througli 
The woodbine at my window, in and 

out. 
With touches of the out-door country- 
news 
For a bending forehead. There I sate, 

and wished 
That morning-truce of Cod would Inst 

till eve, 
Or longer. ' Sleep,' I thought, ' lafc 

sleepers, -sleep. 
And spare me yet the burden of vour 

eyes.' 

Then, suddenly, a single ghastly shriek 



Air J! OR A LEIGH. 



353 



Tore upwards from the bottom of the 
house. 

Like one who waken3 in a grafe and 
shrieks, 

The still house seemed to shriek itself 
alive, 

And shudder through its passages and 
stairs 

With siam of doors and clash of bells. — I 
sprang, 

I stood up in the middle of the room, 

And tiiere confronted at my chamber- 
door, 

A white face, — shivering, ineffectual lips. 

'Come, come,' they tried to utter, and I 

went ; 
As if a giiost had drawn me at the point 
Of a fiery finger through the uneven dark, 
I went with reeling footsteps down the 

stair. 
Nor asked a question. 

There she sate, my aunt, — 
Bolt upright in the chair beside her bed. 
Whose pillow had no dint 1 She had 

used no bed 
For that night's sleeping . . yet slept 

well. My God, 
The dumb derision of that grey, peaked 

face 
Concluded something grave against the 

sun, 
Which filled the chamber with its July 

burst 
When Susan drew the curtains, ignorant 
Of who sate open-eyed behind her. 

There 
She sate . . it sate . , we said ' she * 

yesterday . . 
And held a letter with unbroken seal 
As Susan gave it to her hand last night : 
All night she had held it. If its news re- 
ferred 
To duchies or to dunghills, not an inch 
She'd budge, 'twas obvious, for such 

worthless odds. 
Nor, though the stars were suns'- and 

overbunied 
Their spheric limitations, swallowing up 
j^ike wax the azure spaces, could they 

force 
Those open eves to wink once. What 

last sight ' 
Had left them blank and flat so, — draw- 
ing out 



The faculty of vision from the roots. 
As notiiing more, worth seeing, remained 
behind ? 

Were those the eyes that watched me, 

worried me ? 
That dogged me up and down the hours 

and days, 
A beaten, breathless, miserable soul ? 
And did I pray, a half hour back, but .-o, 
To escape the burden of those eyes . . 

those eyes? 
' Sleep late,' I said. — 

Why now, indeed, they sleep. 
God answers sharp and sudden on some 

prayers. 
And thrusts the thing we have prayed for 

in our face, 
A gauntlet with a gift iu't. Every wish 
Is like a prayer . . with God. 

I had my wish. 
To read and meditate th.e thing I would, 
To fashion all my life upon my thought, 
And marry or not marry. Henceforth, 

none 
Could disapprove me, vex me, hamper 

me. 
Full ground-room, in this desert newly 

made. 
For Babylon or Balbec, — when the 

breath, 
Now choked with sand, returns for build- 
ing towns. 

The heir came oyer on the funeral day, 
And we two cousins met before the dead. 
With two pale faces. Was it death or 

life 
That moved us? When the will was 

read and done. 
The official guest and witnesses with- 
drawn. 
We rose up in a silence almost hard, 
And looked at one another. Then I 

said, 
' Farewell, my cousin.' 

_ But he touched, just touched 
My hatstrings tied for going, (at ihe 

door 
The carriage stood to take me) and said 

low. 
His voice a little unsteady through his 

smile, 
' Siste, viator.' 

' Is there time,' I asked, 



3S4 



AURORA LEIGH. 



' In these last days of railroads, to stop 
short 

Like Cssar's chariot (weighing half a 
ton) 

On the Appian road for morals ? ' 

' There is time,' 

He answered grave, ^ for necessary 
words, 

Inclusive, trust me, of no epitaph 

On man or act, my cousin. We have 
read 

A will, which gives you all the personal 
goods 

And funded monies of your aunt.' 

' I thank 

Her memory for it. With three hundred 
pounds 

We buy in England even, clear standing- 
room 

To stand and work in. Only two hours 
since, 

I fancied I was poor.' 

' And cousin, still 

You're richer than you fancy. The will 
says. 

Three hundred pounds, and any otlur 
sum 

Of which the said testatrix dies pos- 
sessed. 

I say she died possessed of other sums.' 

' Dear Romney, need we chronicle the 
pence? 

I'm richer than I thought— that's evi- 
dent. 

Knough so.' 

' Lfsten rather. You've to do 

With business and a cousin,' he resum- 
ed, 

' And both, I fear, need patience. Here's 
the fact. 

The other sum (there is anotiier sum. 

Unspecified in any will which dates 

After possession, yet bequeathed as 
much 

/\nd clearly as those said three hundred 
pounds) 

Is thirty thousand. You will Iiave it 
paid 

When? where? My duty troubles you 
with words.' 

He struck the iron when the bar was 
hot ; 



No wonder if my eyes sent out some 
sparks. 

' Pause there I I thank you. You are 
delicate 

In glosing gifts ; — but I, wh» share your 
blood. 

Am rather made for giving, like your- 
self, 

Than taking, like your pensioners. Fare- 
well.' 

He stopped me with a gesture of calm 

pride. 
* A Leigh,' he said, ' gives largesse and 

gives love. 
But gloses never: if a Leigh could glose. 
He would not do it, moreover, to a 

Leigh, 
With blood trained up along nine centu- 
ries 
To hound and hate a lie from eyes like 

yours. 
And now we'll make the rest as clear ; 

your aunt 
Possessed these monies.' 

' You will make it clear. 
My cousin, as the honour of us both, 
Or one of us speaks vainly — that's not I. 
My aunt possesed this sum, — inherited 
From whom, and when ? bring documents, 

prove dates.' 

' Why now indeed you throw your bon- 
net ott', 
As if vou had time left for a logarithm ! 
The faith's the want. Dear cousin, give 

me faith, 
And you sJiall walk this road with silken 

shoes. 
As clean as any lady of our house 
Supposed the proudest. Oh, I conipre- 

nend 
The whole position from your point of 

sight. 
I oust you from your father's halls r.nd 

lands, 
And make you poor by ge'ting ricii — 

that's law ; _ 
Considering which, in common circr.ni- 

stance, 
You would not scruple to accept from nic 
Some compensation, some sufficiency 
Of income — that were justice ; but alns, 
I love you . . that's mere nature ; you 

reject 



AURORA LEIGH. 



355 



My love . . that's nature also; and at 

once, 
You cannot, from a suitor disallowed, 
A hand thrown back as mine is, into 

3'ours 
Receive a doit, a farthing, . . not foi llie 

world ! 
That's woman's etiquette, and obviously 
Exceeds the claim of nature, law, and 

right, 
Unanswerable to all. I grant, you see, 
'I"lie case as you conceive it, — le.ive you 

room 
To swee^i^ your ample skirts of woman- 
hood ; 
While, standing humbly squeezed against 

the wall, 
I own myself excluded from being just. 
Restrained from paying indubitable 

debts, 
Because denied from giving you my 

soul — 
That's my misfortune !-I submit to it 
As if, in some more reasonable age, 
'Twould not be less inevitable. Enough. 
You'll trust me, cousin, as a gentleman, 
To keep your honour, as you count it, 

pure, 
Your scruples 0ust as if I thought them 

wise) 
Safo and inviolate from gifts of mine.' 

I answered mild but earnest. ' I 

believe 
In no one's lionour which another keeps, 
Nor man's nor woman's. As I keep, 

myself. 
My truth and my religion, I depute 
No father, though I had one this side 

death, 
Nor brother, though I had twenty, much 

less you. 
Though twice my cousin, and once Rom- 

ney Leigh, 
To keep my honour pure. You face, to- 
day, 
A man who wants instruction, mark me, 

not 
A woman who wants protection. As to 

a man. 
Show manhood, speak out plainly, be 

precise 
With facts and dates. My aunt inherited 
This sum, you say — ' 

' I said she died possessed 



Of this, dear cousin.' 

' Not by heritage. 
Thank you : we're getting to the facts at 

last. 
Perhaps she plaj'ed at commerce with a 

ship 
Which came in heavy with Australian 

gcld.> 
Or touched a lottery with her finger-end. 
Which tumbled on a sudden into her lap 
Some old Rhine tower or principality? 
Perhaps she had to do with a marine 
Sub-transatlantic railroad, which pre-pays 
As well as pre-supposes ? or perhaps 
Some stale ancestral debt was after-paid 
By a hundred years, and took her by 

surprise ? — 
You shake your head, my cousin ; I guess 

ill.' 

' You need not guess, Aurora, r.or de- 
ride, — 

The truth is not afaid of hurting you. 

You'll find no cause, in all your scruples, 
why 

Your aunt should cavil at a deed of gift 

'Twixt her and me.' 

' I thought so — ah ! a gift.' 

' You naturally thought so,' he resumed. 
' A very natural gift.' 

'A gift, a gift ! 
Her individual life being stranded high 
Above all want, approaclnng opulence, 
Too haughty was she to accept a gift 
Without some ultimate aim: ah, ah, I 

see, — 
A gift intended plainly for her heirs, 
And so accepted . . if accepted . . ah. 
Indeed that might be; I am snared per- 
haps. 
Just so. But, cousin, shall I pardon 

you, 
If thus you have caught me with a cruel 
springe ? * 

He answered gently, ' Need you tremble 

and pant 
Like a netted lioness? Is't my fault, mine, 
That you're a grand wild creature of the 

woods. 
And hate the stall built for you? Any 

way. 
Though triply netted, need you glare at 

me? 



356 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I do not hold the cords of such a net ; 
You're free from me, Aurora ! ' 

' Now may God 
Deliver me from this strait ! This gift 

of yours 
Was tendered . . when? accepted . . 

wiien ? ' I asked. ♦ 

'A niontli . . a fortnight since? Six 

weeks ago 
It wa's not tendered. By a word she 

dropped 
I know it was not tendered nor received. 
When was it? bring your dates.' 

' What matters wlien ? 
A half-hour ere she died, or a half-vear, 
Secured the git"t, maintains the heritage 
Inviolable with law. As easy pluck 
The golden stars from iieaven's embroi- 
dered stole. 
To pin them on the grey side of this 

earth. 
As make you poor again, thank God.' 

' Not poor 
Nor clean again from henceforth, you 

thank God ? 
Well, sir— I ask you . , I insist at 

need . . 
Vouchsafe the special date, the special 

date.' 

' The day before her death-day,' he re- 
plied, 
' The gift was in her hands. We'll fiiwi 

that deed, 
And certify tiiat date to you.' 

As one 
Who has climbed a mountain-height and 

carried up 
His own heart climbing, panting in his 

tiiroat 
With the toil of the ascent, takes breath 

at last, 
Ix)oks back in triimiph — so I stood and 

looked: 
' Dear cousin Romney, we have reached 

the top 
Of this steep question, and may rest, I 

think. 
But first.— I pray you pardon, that the 

shock 
And surge of natural feeling and event 
Had made nie oblivious of acquainting 

you 
That this, this letter . . unread, mark, — 

still sealed, 



Was found enfolded in the poor dead 

hand : 
That spirit of hers had gone beyond the 

address. 
Which could not find her though you 

wrote it clear, — 
I know your writing, Romney,— rccos- 

nise 
The open-hearted A, the liberal sweep 
Of the G. Now listen,— let us under- 
stand ; 
You will not find that famous deed of 

gift, 
Unless you find it in the letter here. 
Which, not being mine, I give you back. 

— Refuse 
To take the letter? well jthen— you and 

As writer and as heiress, open it 

Together by your leave. Exactly so: 

'I'he words in which the noble offering's 

made. 
Are nobler still, my cousin ; and. I own. 
The proudest and most delicate lieart 

alive. 
Distracted from the measure of the gift 
By such a grace in giving, might accept 
Your largesse without thinking any 

more 
Of the burthen of it, than King Solomon 
Considered, when he wore his holy ring 
Charactered over with the ineffable spell, 
How many carats of fine gold made up 
Its money- value. So, Leigh gives to 

Leigh — 
Or rather, might have given, observe 1— 

for that's 
The point we come to. Here's a proof 

of gift. 
But here's no proof, sir, of acceptancy, 
But rather, disproof. Death's black dust, 

being blown. 
Infiltrated through every secret fold 
Of this sealed letter by a puff of fate. 
Dried up for ever the fresh-written ink. 
Annulled the gift, disutilised the grace. 
And lel't these fragments.' 

As I spoke, I tore 
The paper up and down, and down and 

up 
And crosswise, till it fluttered from mv 

hands, 
As forest- leaves, stripi)ed suddenly and 

rapt 
By a whirlwind on Valdarno, dioj) again. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Drop slow, and strew the melancholy 
ground 

Before the amazed hills . . . why, so, in- 
deed, 

I'm writing like a poet, somewhat large 

111 the type of the image,- and exagger- 
ate 

A small thing with a great thing, topping 
it!— . 

But then I'm thinking how his eyes look- 
ed . his, 

With what despondent and surprised re- 
proach ! 

I think the tears were in them, as he look- 
ed- 

I think the manly mouth just trembled. 
Then 

He broke the silence. 

' I may ask, perhaps. 

Although no stranger . , only Romuey 
Leigh, 

Which means still less . . than Vincent 
Carrington 

You plans in going lience, and where you 
go. 

This cannot be a secret. 

' All my life 

Is open to you, cousin. I go hence 

To London, to the gathering-place of 
souls. 

To live mine straight out, vocally, in 
books; 

Harmoniously for others, if indeed 

A woman's soul, like man's, be wide 
enough 

To carry the whole octave (that's to 
prove) 

Or, if I fail, still purely by myself. 

Pray God be with me, Romney.* 

' Ah, poor child. 

Who fight against the mother's 'tiring 
hand. 

And choose the headsman's ! May God 
change his world 

For your sake, sweet, and make it mild 
as heaven, 

And juster than I have found you I ' ■- 

But I paused. 

' And you, my cousin? ' — 

T, he said, — ' you ask ? 
You care to ask? Well, girls have curi- 
ous minds. 

And fain would know the end of every- 
thing. 



Of cousins, therefore, with the rest. For 

me, 
Aurora, I've my work ; you know my 

work ; 
And having missed this year some per- 
sonal hope, 
I must beware the rather that I miss 
No reasonable duty. While you sing 
Your happy pastorals of the meads and 

trees. 
Bethink you that I go to impress and 

prove 
On stifled brains and deafened ears, stun- 
ned deaf, 
Crushed dull with grief, that nature sings 

itself. 
And needs no mediate poet, lute or voice, 
To make it vocal. While you ask of 

men 
Your audience, I may get their leave 

perhaps 
For hungry orphans to say audibly 
' We're hungry, see,' — for beaten and 

bullied wives 
To hold their unweaned babies up in 

sight. 
Whom orphanage would better ; and for 

all 
To speak and claim their portion . . by 

no means 
Of the soil, . . but of the sweat in till- 

Since this is now-a-days turned privilege, 
'I'o have only God's curse on us, and not 

man's. 
Such work I have for doing, elbow- 
deep 
In social problems,— as you tie your 

rhymes, 
To draw my usp^ to cohere with needs 
And bring the uneven world back to its 

round ; 
Or, failing so much, fill up, bridge at 

least 
To smoother issues, some abysmal 

cracks 
And tiends of earth, intestine heats have 

made 
To keep men separate, ~" using story 

shifts 
Of hospitals, almshouses, infant schools. 
And other practical stuff of partial good, 
You lovers of the beautiful and whole, 
Despise by system. ' 

* / despise ? The scoru 



35S 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Is yours, my cousin. Poets become such, 
Through scorning nothing. You decry 

them for 
The good of beauty sung and taught by 

them, 
While they respect your practical partial 

good 
As being a part of beauty's self. Adieu ! 
When God helps all the workers for his 

world, 
The singers shall have help of Him, not 

last.' 

He smiled as men smile when they will 

not speak 
Because of something bitter in the 

thought ; 
And still I feel his melancholy eyes 
Look judgment on me. It is seven years 

since : 
I know not if 'twas pity or 'twas scorn 
Has made them so far-reaching: judge 

it ye 
Who have had to do with pity more than 

love. 
And scorn than liatred. I am used, 

since then, 
To otlier ways, from equal men. But so. 
Even so. we let go hands, my cousin 

and I, 
And, in between us, rushed the torrent- 
world 
To blanch our faces like divided rocks. 
And bar for ever mutual sight and touch 
Except through swii;! of spray and all 

tliat roar. 



THIRD BQOK. 

' To-day thou girdest up thy loins thv- 
self. 

And goest wliere thou wouldest : pres- 
ently 

Others shall gird thee,' said the Lord, 
' to go 

Where thou v,fould'st not.' He spoke to 
Peter thus, 

To signify the death which he should die 

When crucified head downwards. 

If He spoke 

To Peter then, He speaks to us the 
same ; 

The wo-d suits many different martyr- 
dom. 



And signifies < multiform of death, 
Although we scarcely die apostles, w«, 
And liave mislaid the keys of heaven and 
earth. 

For 'tis not in mere death that men die 

most ; 
And, after our first girding of the loins 
In youth's fine linen and tair broidery 
To run up Inll and meet the »isiiig sun, 
We are apt to sit tired, patient as a fool. 
While others gird us with the violent 

bands 
Of social figments, feints, and formal- 
isms. 
Reversing our straight nature, lifting up 
Our base needs, keeping down our lofty 

thoughts. 
Head downward on the cross-sticks of 

the world. 
Yet He can pluck us from that shameful 

God, set Our feet low and our forehead 

high. 
And show us how a man was made t» 

walk ! 

Leave the lamp, Susan, and go to bed. 
The room does very well ; I have to 

write 
Beyond the stroke of midnight. Get 

away ; 
Your steps, for ever buzzing in the room, 
Tease me like gnats. Ah, letters ! throw 

them down 
At once, as I must have them, to be 

sure. 
Whether I bid you never bring me such 
At such an hour, or bid you. No ex- 
cuse. 
You choose to bring them, as I choose 

perhaps 
To throw them in the fire. Now get to 

bed. 
And dream, if possible, I am not cross. 

Why what a pettish, petty thing I grow,— 
A mer2, mere woman, — a mere flaccid 

nerve, 
A kerchief left out all night in the rain, 
Turned soft so, — overtasked and over- 
strained 
And overlived in this close I/ondon life'. 
And yet 1 should be stronger. 

Never burn 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Vft/ 



Your letters, poor Aurora ! for they stare 
With red seals from the table, saying 

eaclj, 
• Here's something that you know not.' 

Out alas, 
'Tis scarcely that the world's more good 

and wise 
Or even straighter and more conse- 
quent 
Since yesterday at this time—yet, again, 
If but one angel spoke from Ararat, 
1 should be very sorry not to hear: 
So open all the letters ! let me read. 
Blanche Ord, the writer in the ' Lady's 

Fan, 
Requests my judgment on . . that, after- 
wards. 
Kate Ward desires the model of my 

cloak, 
And signs, * Elisha to you.' Pringle 

Sharpe 
Presents his work on 'Social Conduct,' 

. craves 
A little money for his pressing debts . . 
From me, who scarce have money for my 

needs. 
Art's fiery chariot which we journey in 
Being apt to singe our singing-robes to 

holes. 
Although you ask me for my cloak, Kate 

Ward ! 
Here s Rudgely knows It, — editor and 

scribe — 
He's ' forced to marry where his heart Is 

not, 
Because the purse lacks where he lost 
his heart.' 

Ah, lost it because no one picked it 

up ! 
That's really loss ! (and passable impu- 
dence ) 
My critic Hammond flatters prettily, 
And wants another volume like the last. 
My critic Belfair wants another book, 
Entirely different, which will sell, (and 

- live?) 
A striking book, yet Tiot a startling kook, 
The public blames originalities, 
(You must not pump spring-water una- 
wares 
Upon a gracious public, full of nerves — ) 
Good things, not subtle, new yet ortho- 
dox, 
As easy reading as the dog-eared page 
That's fingered by said public fifty j-ears, 



Since first taught spelling by its grand- 
mother, 

And yet a revelation in some sort : 

That's hard, my critic Belfair ! So— 
what next ? 

My critic Stokes objects to abstract 
thoughts ; 

' Call a man, John, a woman, Joan,' says 
he, 

' And do not prate so of humanities :' 

Whereat I call my critic simply Stokes. 

My critic Jobson recommends more 
mirth 

Because a cheerful genius suits the times, 

And all true poets laugh unquenchably 

Like Shakspeare and the gods. That's 
very hard. 

The gods may laugh, and Shakspeare ; 
Dante smiled 

With such a needy heart on two pale 
lips. 

We cry, ' Weep rather, Dante.' Poems 
are 

Men, if true poems : and who dares ex- 
claim 

At any man's door, ' Here, 'tis under- 
stood 

The thunder fell last week and killed a 
wife, 

And scared a sickly husband— what of 
that? 

Get up, be merry, shout and clap j'our 
hands, 

Because a cheerful genius suits the 
times—?' 

None says so to the man, — and why in- 
deed 

Should any to the poem? A ninth 
seal ; 

The apocalyse is drawing to a close. 

Ha, — this from Vincent Carrington,— 
' Dear friend, 

I want good counsel. Will you lend mc 
wings 

To raise me to the subject, in a sketch 

I'll bring to-morrow — may I? at eleven? 

A poet's (inly born to turn to use ; 

So save you ! for the world . . and Car- 
rington.' 

(Writ after.) * Have you heard of Rom- 
ney Leigh 

Beyond what's said of him in newspa- 
pers, 

His phalansteries there, his speeches 
here, 



.■;^o 



AURORA LEIGH. 



His pamphlets, pleas, and statements, 

everywhere 
He dropped me, long ago ; but no one 

drops 
A golden apple — though indeed one day 
You hinted that, but jested. Well, at 

least 
You know Lord Howe who sees him . . 

whom he sees 
And ycnt see, and I hate to see, — for 

Howe 
Stands high upon the brink of theories, 
Observes the swimmers and cries ' Very 

fine,' 
But keeps dry linen equally, — unlike 
That gallant breaster, Ronmey. Strange 

It is, 
Such sudden madness seizing a young 

man 
To make earth over again, — while I'm 

content 
To make the pictures. Let me bring 

the sketch. 
A tiptoe Danae, overbold and hot ; 
Both arms a flame to meet her wishing 

Jove 
Halfway, and bum him faster down ; the 

face 
And breasts upturned and straining, the 

loose locks 
All glowing with the anticipated gold. 
Or here's another on the self-same theme. 
She lies here — flat upon her prison-floor, 
The long hair swathed about her to the 

heel 
Like wet sea-weed . You dimly see lier 

through 
The glittering haze of that prodigious 

rain. 
Half blotted out of nature by a love 
As heavy as fate. I'll bring you either 

sketch. 
I think, myself, the second indicates 
More passion.' 

Surely. Self is put away. 
And calm will\ abdication. She is Jove, 
And no more Danae -greater thus. Per- 
haps 
The painter symbolises unawares 
Two states of the recipient artist-soul 
One, forward, personal, wanting rever- 
ence. 
Because aspiring only. We'll be calm. 
And know that, when indeed our Joves 

come down 



We all turn stiller than we have eref 
been. 

Kind Vincent Carrington. I'll let him 

come. 
He talks of Florence, — and mny say a 

word 
Of something as it chanced seven years 

ago, 
A hedgehog in the path, or a lame bird, 
In those green country walks, in that 

good time. 
When certainly I was so miserable . . 
I seem to have missed a blessing ever 

since. 

The music soars within the little lark. 

And tlie lark soars. It is not thus with 
men. 

We do' not make our places with ouv 
strains, — 

Content, while they rise, to remain be- 
hind, 

Alone on earth instead of so in heaven. 

No matter — I bear on my broken tale. 

When Romney Leigh and I had parted 

thus, 
I took a chamber up three flights of 

stairs 
Not far from being as steep as some larks 

climb, 
And there in a certain house in Kensing- 
ton, 
Three years I lived and worked. Get 

leave to work 
In this world, — 'tis the best you get nt 

all; 
For God, in cursing, gives us better gifts 
Than men in benediction. God says, 

' Sweat 
For foreheads ' men say ' crowns ; ' and 

so we are crowned, — 
Ay, gashed by some tormenting circle of 

steel 
Which snaps with a secret spring Get 

work ; get work ; 
Be sure 'tis better than what you work 

to get. 

Serene and unafraid of solitude 
I worked the short days out, — and watch- 
ed the sun 
On lurid morns or monstrous afternoons 
Like some Druidic idol's fiery brass 



AURORA LEIGH, 



361 



Witli fixed unflickering outline of dead 

heat, 
From which tlie blood of wretches pent 

inside 
Seems oozing forth to incarnadine the 

air, 
Push out through fog with his dilated 

disk, 
And startle the slant roofs and chimney- 
pots 
With splashes of fierce colour. Or I 

saw 
Fog only, the great tawny weltering fog. 
Involve the passive city, strangle it 
Alive, and draw it off into the void, 
Spires, bridges, streets, and squares, as 

if a sponge 
Had wiped out London, — or as noon and 

night 
Had clapped together and utterly struck 

out 
The intermediate time, undoing them- 
selves 
In the act. Your city poets see such 

things 
Not despicable. Mountains of the 

south, 
When, drunk and mad with elemental 

wines 
They rend the seamless mist and stand 

up bare. 
Make fewer singers, haply. No one 

sings, 
Descending Sinai ; on* Parnassus-mount 
You take a mule to climb and not a muse. 
Except in fable and figure : forests chant 
Their anthems to themselves, and leave 

you dumb. 
But sit in London at the day's decline. 
And view the city perish in the mist 
Like Pharaoh's armaments in the deep 

Red Sea, 
The chariots, horsemen, footmen, all the 

host. 
Sucked down and choked to silence — 

then, surprised 
By a sudden sense of vision and of tan e, 
You feel as conquerors though you did 

not fight, 
And you and Israel's other singing-girls, 
Ay, Miriam with them, sing the song you 

choose. 

I worked with patience which means al- 
\ most power. 



I did some excellent tilings indifferently, 
Some bad things excellently. Both were 

praised, 
The latter loudest. And by such a time 
That I myself had set them down as sins 
Scarce worth the price of sackcloth, week 

by week 
Arrived some letter through the sedulous 

post. 
Like these I've read, and yet dissimiliar, 
With pretty maiden seals, — initials 

twined 
Of lilies, or a heart marked Emily, 
(Convicting Emily of being all heart ;) 
Or rarer tokens from young bachelors, 
Who wrote from college with the same 

goosequill. 
Suppose, they had just been plucked of, 

and a snatch 
From Horace, ' Collegisse juvat,' set 
Upon the first page. Many a letter 

signed 
Or unsigned, showing the writers at 

eighteen 
Had lived too long, although a muse 

should help 
Their dawn by holding candles, — com- 
pliments. 
To smile or sigh at. Such could pass 

with me 
No more than coins from Moscow cir- 
culate 
At Paris. Would ten roubles buy a tag 
Of ribbon on the boulevard, worth a 

sou ? 
I smiled that all this youth should love 

me, — sighed 
That such a love could scarcely raise them 

up 
To love what was more worthy than my- 
self; 
Then sighed again, again, less gener- 
ously. 
To think the verjr love they lavished so, 
Proved me inferior. The strong loved 

me not, 
And he . . my cousin Romney . . did 

not write. 
I felt the silent finger of his scorn 
Prick every bubble of my frivolous fame 
As my breath blew it, and resolve it back 
To the air it came from. Oh, I justified 
The measure he had taken of my height : 
The tiling was plain— he was not wrong 
a line ; 



362 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I played at art, made thrusts with a toy- 

swoid, 
Amused the lads and maidens. 

Came a sigh 
Deep, hoarse with resolution, — I would 

work 
To better ends, or play in earnest. 

' Heavens, 
I think I should be almost popular 
If this went on ! ' — I ripped my verses 

up. 
And found no blood upon the rapier's 

point ; 
The heart in them was just an embryo's 

heart 
Which never yet had beat, that it should 

die; 
Just gasps of make-believe galvanic life ; 
Mere tones, inorgauised to any tune. 

And yet I felt it in me where it burnt, 
Like those hot fire-seeds of creation held 
In Jove's clenched palm before the 

worlds were sown, — 
But I— I was not Juno even ! my hand 
Was shut in weak convulsion, woman's 

ill. 
And when I yearned to lose a finger — lo, 
The nerve revolted, 'Tis the same even 

now : 
This hand may never, haply, open large, 
Before the spark is quenched, or the 

palm charred. 
To prove the power not else than by the 

pain. 

It burns, it burnt — my whole life bunit 
with it, 

And light, not sunlight and not torch- 
light, flashed 

My steps out through the slow and diffi- 
cult road. 

I had grown distrustful of too forward 
Springs, 

The season's books in drear significance 

Of morals, dropping round me. Lively 
books? 

The ash h*as livelier verdure than the 
yew ; 

And yet the yew's green longer, and 
alone 

Found worthy of the holy Christmas 
time. 

We'll plant more yews if possible, albeit 

We plant the graveyards with them. 



Day and night 
I worked my rhythmic thought, and tur- 

rowed up 
Both watch and slumber with long lines:; 

of lite 
Which did not suit th?*«- *^3son. Thd 

rose fell 
From either cheek, my eyes globed lumi- 
nous 
Through orbits of blue shadow, and my 

pulse 
Would shudder along the purple-veined 

wrisi 
Like a shot bird. Youth's stern, set face 

to face 
With youtii's ideal : and when people 

came 
And said, ' You work too much, you are 

looking ill,' 
I smiled for pity of them who pitied me. 
And thought I should be better soon i 

perhaps 
For those ill looks. Observe—' I,' 

means in youth 
Just / . . the conscious and eternal soul 
With all its ends, — and not the outside 

life, 
The parcel- man, the doublet of the flesh, 
'Ihe so much liver, lung, integument. 
Which make the sum of ' I ' hereafter 

when 
World-talkers talk of doing well or ill. 
/ prosper, if I gain a step, although 
A nail then piwced my foot ; although 

my brain 
Embracing any truth froze paralysed, 
/ prosper. I but change my instrument ; 
I break the spade off, digging deep fori 

gold. 
And catch the mattock up. 

I worked on, on. 

Through all the bristling fence of nights; 
and days 

Which hedges time in from the eterni- 
ties, 

I struggled, . . never stopped to note 
the stakes 

Which hurt me in my course. The mid- 
night oil 

Would stink sometimes there came 
some vulgar needs : 

I had to live that therefore I might work. 

And, being but poor, I was constrained, 
for life, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



363 



To work with one hand for the book- 
sellers 

While working with the other for my- 
self 

Antl art. You swim with feet as well as 
hands, 

Or make small way. I apprehended 
this,— 

In England, no one lives by verse that 
lives ; 

And, apprehending, I resolved by prose 

To make a space to sphere my living 
verse. 

I wrote for cyclopaedias, magazines, 

And weekly papers, holding up my name 

To keep it from the mud. I learnt the 
use 

Of the editorial ' we ' in a review, 

As counlv ladies the fine trick of trains, 

And swept it grandly through the open 
doors 

As if one could not pass through doors 
at all 

Save so encumbered. I wrote tales be- 
side. 

Carved many an article on cherry-stones 

To suit light readers,— something in the 
lines 

Revealing, it was said, the mallet-hand, 

But that^ rU never vouch for. What 
vou do 

For bread, will taste of common grain, 
not grapes. 

Although you have a vineyard in Cham- 
pagne, — 

Much less in Nephelococcygia, 

As mine was, peradventure. 

Having bread 

For just so many days, just breathing 

room 
For body and verse, I stood up straight 

and worked 
My veritable work. And as the soul 

Which grows within a child makes the 

child grow, — 
Or as the fiery sap, the touch from 

God, 
Careering through a tree, dilates the 

bark 
And roughs with scale and knob, before 

it strikes 
The summer foliage out in a green 

flame — 
So life, in deepening with me, deepened 
all 



The course I took, the work I did. In- 
deed 
The academic law convinced of sin : 
Tiie critics cried out on the falling off, 
Regretting the first manner. But 1 felt 
My heart's life throbbing in my verse to 

show 
It lived, it also — certes incomplete. 
Disordered with all Adam in the blood. 
But even its very tumors, warts, and 

wens. 
Still organised by and implying life. 

A lady called upon me on such a day. 
She had the low voice of your English 

dames. 
Unused, it seems, to need rise half a 

note 
To catch attention,- and their quiet 

mood. 
As if they lived too high above the earth 
For that to put them out in anything : 
So gentle, because verily so proud ; 
So wary and afraid of hurting you. 
Bv no means that vou are not really vile. 
But that they would not touch you with 

their foot 
To push you to your place ; so self-oos- 

sessed 
Yet gracious and conciliating, it takes 
An effort in their presence to speak 

truth: 
You know the sort of woman, — brilliant 

stuff. 
And out of nature. 'Lady Waldemar.' 
She said her name quite simply, as if it 

meant 
Not much indeed, but something,— took 

my hands. 
And smiled as if her smile could help 

my case. 
And dropped her eyes on me and let 

them melt. 
' Is this,' she said, ' the Muse ? ' 

' No sybil even,' 
I answered, ' since she fails to guess the 

cause 
Which taxed you with this visit, madam.' 
'Good,' 
She said, ' I value what's sincere at 

once ; 
Perhaps if I had found a literal Muse,_ 
The visit might have taxed me. As it is. 
You wear vour blue so chiefly iu your 
eyes, 



3^4 



AURORA LEIGH. 



My fair Aurora, in a frank good way, 
It comforts me entirely for your fame, 
As well as for the trouble of ascent 
To this Olympus.' 

There, a silver laugh 
Ran rippling through her quickened little 

breaths 
The steep stair somewhat justified. 

_ ' But still 
Your ladyship has left me curious why 
You dared the risk of finding the said 

Muse?' 

'Ah, — keep me, notwithstanding to the 

point, 
Like any pedant. Is the blue in eyes 
As awful as in stockings after all, 
I wonder, that you'd have my business 

out 
Before I breathe — exact the epic plunge 
In spite of gasps? Well, naturally you 

think 
I've come here as the lion-hunters go 
To deserts, to secure you with a trap, 
For exhibition in my drawing-rooms 
On zoologic soirees? Not in the least. 
Roar softly at me ; I am frivolous, 
I dare say ; I have played at wild-beasts 

shows. 
Like other women of my class. — but 

now 
I meet my lion simply as Androcles 
Met his . . when at his mercy.' 

So, she bent 
Her head, as queens may mock,— then 

lifting up 
Her eyelids with real grave queenly look, 
Which ruled and would not spare, not 

even iierself, — 
' I think you have a cousin ; — Romney 

Leigh.' 

' You bring a word from hint V — my eyes 

leapt up 
To the very height of hers, — 'a word 

from him ? ' 

' I bring a word about liim, actually. 
But first,' — she pressed me with her ur- 
gent eyes — 
' You do not love him, — you ? ' 

' You're frank at least 
In putting questions, madam,' I replied. 
' I love my coubiu cousinly — no more.' 



' I guessed as much. I'm ready to be 

frank 
In answering also, if you'll question me, 
Or even with something less. You stand 

outside. 
You artist women, of the common sex ; 
You share not with us, and exceed us so 
Perhaps by what you're mulcted in, your 

hearts 
Being starved to make your heads : so 

run the old 
Traditions of you. I can therefore 

speak, 
Without the natural shame which crea- 
tures feel 
When speaking on their level, to their 

like. 
There's many a papist she, would rather 

die 
Than own to her maid she put a ribbon 

on 
To catch the indifferent eye of such a 

man, — 
Who yet would count adulteries on her 

beads 
At holy Mary's shrine and never blush ; 
Because the saints are so far off, we lose 
All modesty before them. Thus, to-day. 
'Tis /, love Roinney Leigh.' 

' Forbear,' I cried. 
' If here's no Muse, still less is any saint ; 
Nor even a friend, that Lady Waldemar 
Should make confessions ' . . 

'That's unkindly said. 
If no friend, what forbids to make a 

friend 
To join to our confession ere wc have 

done? 
I love your cousin. If it seems unwise 
To say so, it's still foolisher (we're 

frank) 
To feel so. My first husband left me 

young, 
And pretty enough, so please you, and 

rich enough. 
To keep my booth in May-fair with the 

rest 
To happy issues. There are marquises 
Would serve seven years to call me wire, 

I know; 
And, after seven, I might consider it. 
For there's some comfort in a marqui- 

sate 
When all's said, — yes, but after the seven 

years ; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



:^R< 



I, now, love Romney. You put up your 

lip, 
So like a Leigh ! so like him !— Pardon 

me, 
I am well aware I do not derogate 
I loving Romney Leigh. The name is 

good. 
The means are excellent ; but the man ; 

the man — 
Heaven help us both, — I am near as mad 

as he. 
In loving such an one.' 

She slowly wrung 
Her heavy ringlets till they touched her 

smile, 
As reasonably sorry for herself; 
And thus continued, — 

' Of a truth. Miss Leigh, 
I have not, without struggle come to 

this. 
I took a master in the German tongue, 
I gamed a little, went to Paris twice ; 
But, after all, this love ! . . . you eat of 

love. 
And do as vile a thing as if you ate 
Of garlic — which, whatever else you eat, 
Tastes uniformly acrid, till your peach 
Reminds you of your onion I Am I 

coarse ? 
Well, love's coarse, nature's coarse— ah, 

there's the rub ! 
We fair fine ladies, who park out our 

lives 
Prom common sheep-paths, cannot help 

the crows 
From flying over, — we're as natural still 
As Blowsalinda. Drape us perfectly 
In Lyons* velvet,— we are not, for that, 
Lay-ngure», like you ; we have liearts 

within. 
Warm, live, improvident, indecent 

hearts. 
As ready for outrageous ends and acts 
As any distressed sempstress of them all 
That Romney groans and toils for. We 

catch love *• 

And other fevers, in the vulgar way. 
Love will not be outwitted by our wit. 
Nor outrun by our equipages: — mine 
Persisted, spite of efforts. All my cards 
Turned up but Romney Leigh ; my Ger- 
man stopped 
At germane Wertheiism ; my Paris 

rounds 



Returned me from the Champs Elyseea 

just 
A ghost, and sighing like Dido's. I 

came home 
Uncured, — convicted rather to myself 
Of being in love . . in love 1 That's 

coarse you'll say. 
I'm talking garlic' 

Coldly I replied. 
' Apologise for atheism, not love ! 
For me, 1 do believe in love, and God. 
I know my cousin : Lady Waldemar 
I know not : yet I say as much as this — 
Whoever loves him, let her rot excuse 
But cleanse herself, that, loving such a 

man. 
She may not do it with such unworthy 

love 
He cannot stoop and take it.' 

'That is said 
Austerely, like a youthful prophetess, 
Who knits her brows across her pretty 

eyes 
To keep them back from following the 

grey flight 
Of doves between the temple-columns. 

Dear, 
Be kinder with me. Let us two be 

friends. 
Fm a mere woman,— the more weak 

perliaps 
Through being so proud ; you're better ; 

as for him. 
He's best. Indeed he builds his good- 
ness up 
So high, It topples down to the other 

side. 
And makes a sort of badness ; there's 

the worst 
I have to say against your cousin's best ! 
And so be mild, Aurora, with my worst, 
For his sake, if not mine.' 

' I own myself, 
Incredulous of confidence like this 
Availing him or you.' 

'And I, myself. 
Of being worthy of him with any love : 
In your sense 1 am not so — let it pass. 
Let that pass too.' 

' Pass, pass ! we play police 
Upon my cousin's life, to indicate 
What may or may not pass. ' I cried. 

' He knows 
What's worthy of him ; the choice re- 
mains with him; 



366 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And what he chooses, act or wife, I 
think 

I shall not call unworthy, I, for one.' 

* 'Tis somewhat rashly said,' she answer- 
ed slow. 

' Now let's talk reason, though we talk 
of love. 

Your cousin Romncy Leigh's a monster : 
there, 

The word's out fairly ; let me prove the 
fact. 

We'll take, say, that most perfect of an- 
tiques 

They call the Genius of the Vatican, 

Which seems too beauteous to endure it- 
self 

In this mixed world, and fasten it for 
once 

Upon the torso of the Dancing Fawn, 

(Who might limp surely, if he did not 
dance,) 

Instead of Buonarroti's mask : what 
then ? 

We show the sort of monster Romney is. 

With god-like virtue and heroic aims 

Subjoined to limping possibilities 

Of mismade human nature. Grant the 
man 

Twice godlike, twice heroic,— still he 
limps. 

And here's the point we come to.' 

' Pardon me, 

But, Lady Waldemar, the point's the 
thing 

We never come to.' 

' Caustic, insolent 

At need ! I like you ' — (there, she took 
my hands) 

' And now my lioness, help Androcles, 

For all your roaring. Help me ! for my- 



all yc 
self 



I would not say so— but for him. He 

limps 
So cei tainly, he'll fall into the pit 
A week hence, — so I lose him— so he is 

lost I 
For when he's fairly married, he a Leigh, 
l"o a girl of doubtful life, uudoubtful 

birth. 
Starved out in London till her coarse- 
grained hands 
Are whiter than her morals, — even you 
May call his choice unworthy.'. 

' Married I lost I 
He, . . . Romney ! ? 



* Ah, you're moved at last,' she said. 

• These monsters, set out in the open 
sun, 

Of course throw monstrous shadows : 
those who think 

Awry, will scarce act straightly. Who 
but he? 

And who but you can wonder? He has 
been mad. 

The whole world knows, since first, a 
nominal man. 

He soured the proctors, tried the gowns- 
men's wits. 

With equal scorn of triangles and wine, 

And took no honours, yet was honour- 
able. 

They'll tell you he lost count of Homer's 
ships 

In Melbourne's poor-bills, Ashley's fac- 
tory bills. — 

Ignored the Aspasia we all dare to praise, 

lor other women, dear, we could not 
name 

Because we're decent. Well, he had 
some right 

On his side probably ; men always have. 

Who go absurdly wrong. The living 
boor 

Who brews your ale, exceeds in vital 
worth 

Dead Caesar who ' stops bungholes ' ia 
the cask ; 

And also, to do good is excellent. 

For persons of his income, even to 
boors : 

I sympathise with all such things. But 
he 

Went mad upon them . . madder and 
more mad. 

From college times to these, — as, going 
down hill. 

The faster still, the farther ! you must 
know 

Your Leigh by heart ; he has sown his 
black young curls 

With bleaching cares of half a million 
men 

Already. If you do not starve, or sin. 

You're nothing to him. Pay the income- 
tax. 

And break your heart upon't . . he'll 
scarce be touched ; 

But come upon the parish, qualified 

tor the parish stocks, and Romney will 
be tliera 



AURORA LEIGH. 



o call you brother, sister, or perh.ips 
tenderer name still. Had I any chance 
'^ith Mister Leigii, who am Lady VVal- 

demar, 
nd never committed felony ? ' 

* You speak 
oo bitterly,' I said, 'for the literal 

truth.' 

The truth is bitter. Hero's a man who 
looks 

or ever on the ground ! you must be 
low ; 

r e.se a pictured ceiling overhead, 

ood painting thrown away. For me, 
I've done 

'hat women may, we're somewhat lim- 
ited, 
e modest women, but I've done my 

best. 
How men are perjured when they 
swear our eyes 

ave meaning in them ! they're just 
blue or brown, 

hey just can drop their lids a little. 

And yet 
ine did more, for I read half Fourier 
through, 

roudhon, Considerant, and Louis 
Blanc, 

^ith various other of his socialists ; 

nd if I had been a fathom less in love, 

[ad cured myself with gaping. As it 
was, 

quoted from them prettily enough 

erhaps, to make them sound half ra- 
tional 

o a saner man than he whene'er we 
talked, 

''or which I dodged occasion) — learnt 
by heart 

[is speeches in the Commons and else- 
where 

fpon the social question ; heaped re- 
ports 

>f wicked women and penitentiaries, 

•n all my tables, with a place for Sue ;•- 

nd gave my name to swell subscription- 
lists 

oward keeping up th^ sun at night in 
heaven, 

ind other possible ends. All things I 
did, 

kcept the impossible . . such as wear- 
ing gowna 



Provided by the Ten Hours' movement : 

there, 
I slopped — we must stop somewhere. 

He, meanwhile. 
Unmoved as the Indian tortoise 'neath 

the world, 
Let all that noise go on upon his back : 
He would not disconcert or throw me 

out ; 
'Twas well to see a woman of my class 
With such a dawn of conscience. For 

the heart, 
Made firewood for his sake, and flaming 

To his face, — he merely warmed his feet 

at it ; 
But deigned to let my carriage stop him 

short 
In park or street, — he leaning on the door 
With news of the committee which sate 

last 
On pickpockets at suck.' 

' You jest — you jest.* 

' As martyrs jest, dear, (if you read their 

lives) 
Upon the axe which kills them. When 

all's done 
By me, . . for him — you'll ask him pres- 
ently 
The colour of my hair — he cannot tell. 
Or answers ' dark ' at random, — while, 

be sure. 
He's absolute on the figure, five or ten, 
Of my last subscription. Is it bearable, 
And I A woman ? ' 

' Is it reparable, 
Though / were a man ? ' 

' I know not. That's to prove. 
But first, this shameful marriage.' 

' Ay ?' I cried, 
' Then really there's a marriage ? ' 

' Yesterday 
I held him fast upon it. ' Mister Leigh,' 
Said I, ' shut up a thing, it makes more 

noise. 
' The boiling town keeps secrets ill ; I've 

known 
' Yours since last week. Forgive my 

knowledge so 
'You feel I'm not the woman of the 

world 
' The world thinks ; you have borne with 

me before 



36S 



AURORA LEIGH. 



' And used me in your noble work, our 

work, 
' And now you shall not cast )ne off 

because 
' You're at the difficult point, the join. 

'Tis true 
' Even 1 can scarce admit the cogency 
' Of such a marriage . . where you do 

not love, 
'(Except the class) yet marry and throw 

your name 
' Down to the gutter, for a fire-escape 

* To future generations I 't is subiiine, 

* A great example, — a true Genesis 

* Of the opening social era. But take 

heed; 

• This virtuous act must have a ijatent 

weight, 

• Or loses half its virtue. Make it tell, 

• Interpret it, and set in the light, 

' And do not muffle it in a winter cloak 
' As a vulgar bit of shan>e, — as if, at best, 
♦A Leigh had made a misalliance and 

blushed 
•A Howard should know it.* Then, I 

pressed him more — 

• He would not choose,' I said, ' that 

even his kin . . 

* Aurora Leigh, even . • should conceive 

his act • 
' Less sacrifice, more fantasy.' At 

which 
He grew so pale, dear, . . to the lips I 

knew, 
I had touched him. ' Do you know her,' 

he inquired, 
' My cousin Aurora ? ' ' Yes,' T said, 

and lied, 
(But truly we all know you by your 

books) 
And so I offered to come straight to 

you, 
Explain the subject, justify the cause, 
And take you with me to St. Margaret's 

Court 
To see this miracle, this Marian Erie, 
This drover's daughter (she's not pretty, 

he swears) 
Upon whose finger, exquisitely pricked 
By a iumdred needles, we're to iiang the 

tie 
'Twixt class and class in England,— thus 

indeed 
By such a presence, yours and mine, to 

lift 



The match up from the doubtful place."! 

At once 
He thanked me sighing . . murmured 

to himself 
' She'll do it perhaps ; she's noble,'— i 

thanked me, twice, I 

And promised, as my guerdon, to put off 
His marriage for a month.' 

I answered then. 
' I understand your drift imperfectly. 
You wish to lead me to my cousin's be-j 

trothed. 
To touch her hand if worthy, and lioldi 

her hand 
If feeble, thus to justify his match. 
So be it then. But how this serves; youii 

ends, 
And how thi strange confession of youn 

love 
Serves this, I have to learn — I cannoti 



She knit her restless forehead. ' Then,i 

despite, 
Aurora, that most radiant morning! 

name, 
You're dull as any London afternoon. 
I wanted time,— and gained it, — wanted 

you. 
And gain you I You will come and see 

the girl 
In whose most prodigal eyes the linea;! 

pearl j 

And pride of all your lofty race of Leighsij 
Is destined to solution. Authorised . 
By sight and knowledge, then, you'll 

speak your mind. 
And prove to Romney, in your brilliant 

way, I 

He'll wrong the people and posterity 1 
(Say such a thing is bad for me and you 
And you fail utterly,) by concluding thu; 
An execrable niarnage. Break it up. 
Disroot it — peradventure presently, 
We'll plant a better fortune in its place 
Be good to me, Aurora, scorn me less 
For saying the thing I should not. Wei 

I know I 

I should not. I have kept, as otlieri 

have, 
The iron rule of womanly reserve 
In lip and life, till now: I wept a week 
Before I came here,' — Ending, she wa: 

pale ; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



369 



The last words, haughtily said, were 

tremulous. 
This palfrey pranced in harness, arched 

her neck, 
^nd, only by the foam upon the bit, 
Vow saw she champed against it. 

Then I rose. 
I love love : truth's no cleaner thing 

than love. 
[ c )mprehend a love so fiery hot 
[t burns its natural veil of august shame, 
And stands sublimely in the nude, as 

chaste 

4s Medicean Venus. But I know, 
\ love that burns through veils will burn 

through masks 
And shrivel up treachery. What, love 

and lie ! 

Nay — go to the opera ! your love's cura- 
ble.' 

I love and lie ?* she said — ' I lie, for- 
sooth ? ' 

And beat lier taper foot upon the floor. 

And smiled against the shoe, — ' You're 
hard, Miss Leigh, 

Unversed in current phrases,— Bowling- 
greens 

Of poets are fresher than the world's 
highways ; 

Forgive me that I rashly blew the dust 

Which dims our hedges even, in your 
eyes. 

And vexed you so much. You find, pro- 
bably, 

No evil in this marriage, — rather good 

Of innocence, to pastoralise in song : 

You'll give the bond your signature, per- 
haps. 

Beneath the lady's mark, — indifferent 

That Romney chose a wife, could write 
her name. 

In witnessing he loved her.' 

' Loved ! ' I cried ; 

* Who tells you that he wants a wife to 
love' 

He gets a horse to use, not love, I think : 

There's work for wives as well, — and af- 
ter, straw. 

When men are liberal. For myself, you 
err 

Supposing power \n me to break this 
niatch. 

I could not do it to save Romney's life ; 

And would not, to save mine.' 



•Yon take so it.' 
She said ; ' farewell then. Write your 

books in peace, 
As far as may be for some secret stir 
Now obvious to me, — for, most obvious- 
ly. 
In coming hither I mistook the way.' 
Wliereat she touched my hand, and bent 

her head. 
And floated from me like a silent cloud 
That leaves the sense of thunder. 

I drew breath 
Oppressed in my deliverance. After all 
This woman breaks her social system up 
For love, so counted — the love possible 
To such, — and lilies are still lilies, pulled 
By smutty hands, though spotted from 

their white ; 
And thus she is better haply of her kind, 
Than Romney Leig'h, who lives by dia- 
grams. 
And crosses out the spontaneities 
Of all his individual, personal life, 
With formal universals. As if man 
Were set upon a high stool at a desk 
To keep God's books for Him in red and 

black, 
And feel by millions ! What, if even 

God 
Were chiefly God by living out Himself 
To an individualism of the Infinite, 
Eterne, intense, profuse,— still throwing 

up 
The golden spray of multitudinous 

worlds 
In measure to the proclive weight and 

rush 
Of His inner nature, — the spontaneous 

love 
Still proof and outflow of spontaneous 

life? 
Then live, Aurora. 

Two hours afterward. 
Within St. Margaret's Court I stood 

alone, 
Close-veiled. A sick child, from an ague- 
fit, 
Whose wasted right hand gamboled 

'gainst his left 
With an old brass button in a blot of 

sun, 
Jeered weakly at me as I passed across 
The unev^i pavement ; while a woman, 
rouged 



370 



Al-KOKA LEIGIT. 



U^xm the angular cheek-lxmcs. kerchief 

toni, 
Tliin d.mgling liKks, and flat lascivious 

mouth, 
Cursed at a window both wa\-s, in and 

out, 
By tunis some bed-rid cieauiro and tnv- 

self',— 
' Lie still there, mother I liker the dead 

dog 
You'll be to-morrow. What, we pick 

our way. 
Fine madam, with those damnable small 

feet ! 
We cover up our face from doing good. 
As if it were our purse ! What brings 

you here. 
My lady ? is't to find my gentleman 
Who visits his tame pigeon in the 

eaves? 
Our cholera catch you with its cranips 

and spams. 
And tumble up vour good clothes, veil 

and all. 
And turn your whiteness dead-blue.' I 

looked up ; 
I think 1 could have walked through 

hell that day. 
And never flinched. ' The dear Christ 

comfort you,' 
I said, ' you must have been most miser- 
able' 
To be so cruel.' — and I emptied out 
My purse upon the stones : when, as I 

had cast 
The last charm in the cauldron, the whole 

court 
Went boiling, bubbling up, from all its 

doors 
And windows, with a hideous wail of 

laughs 
And roar of oaths, and blows perhaps . . 

I passed 
Too quickly for distinguishing . . and 

pushed 
A little side-door hanging on a hinge. 
And plunged into the dark, and groj^d 

and climbed 
The long, steep, narrow stair 'twixt brok- 
en r.xil 
And mildewed wall that let the plaster 

drop 
To startle me in the blackness. Still, 

up, up I 



So high lived Romnev's bride. I paused 

.at last 
Het'ore a low door in tlie r<K)f, and 

knocked ; 
There came an answer like a hurried 

dove, 

* So soon ? can that be Mister I.cigK ? 50 

soon ? ' 
And as I entered, an inetTable face 
Met mine uix)n the threshold. ' Oh. not 

you. 
Not you ! ' ... the dropping of the 

voice implied, 

* Then, if not you, for me not anv one.' 
I looked her in the eyes, and held her 

hands, 
And said, ' I am his cousin^ — Ronmey 

Leigh's; 
And here I'm come to see my cousin 

\oo. ' 
She touched me with her face and with 

lier voice, 
This daughter of the people. Such soft 

flowers, 
From such rough roots? the i>eople, un- 
der there. 
Can sin so. curse so, look so, smell so . . . 

faugh ! 
Yet have such daughters ? 

No wise beautiful 
Was Mari.an Erie, She was not white 

nor brown, 
But could look either, like a mist that 

changed 
According to being shone on more or 

less. 
The hair, too, ran its opulence of curls 
In doubt 'twixt dark and bright, nor left 

you clear 
To name the colour. Too nuich hair 

I'verhaps 
(I'll name a fault here) for so small a 

he.ad. 
Whicii seemed to droop on that side and 

on this. 
As a full-blown rose uneasy with its 

weiglu 
Though not a wind should trouble it. 

Again, 
The dunple in the check h.nd better 

gone 
With redder, fuller rounds: and some- 
what large 
The mouth was, tliough the nniky little 

teeth 



A UK OR A LEIGH. 



t)i»jioIved it to so inrantlne a smile. 

F »r sof»n it smiled at me; the eye* 

Rmiieo too, 
But 'twas as if remembering they had 

wept. 
And knowing they should, some day, 

weep again. 

We talked. She old m? all her »tory out, 
Which I'll i-e-teli with fuller utterance. 
As coloured and confirmed in aftertimes 
By others and herself to<j. Marian 

Erie 
Was bwn upon the ledge of Malvern 

Hill 
To eastward, in a hut built up at night 
To evade the landlord's eye, of mud and 

tnrf, 
Still liable, if once he Iwjked that way, 
To being straight levelled, scattered by 

his foot, 
I«ike any other anthill. Bom, I say ; 
God sent her to His world, commissioned 

right, 
Her human testimonials fully signed. 
Not scant in soul — complete in linea- 
ments : 
But others had to swindle her a place 
To wail in when she had come. No 

place for her. 
By man's law ■. born an outlaw, was this 

babe. 
Her first cry in our strange and strang- 
ling air, 
<Vhen cast in spasms out by the shudder- 
ing womb. 
Was wrong against the social code, — 

forced v/rong. 
What business had the baby to cry 
there ? 

I tell her story and grow pa.<(sionate. 
She, Marian, did not tell it so, but used 
Meek v/ords that made no wonder of 

herself 
For being so sad a creature. 'Mister 

Leigh 
Considered truly tliat such things should 

cha ige. 
They loill., in heaven— but meantime, on 

the earth. 
There's none can like a nettle as a pink, 
£xcept hiruielf. We're nettles, some 

of us, 



And give offence \r} the act of Ri>ringjnif 

up; 
And, if we leave the damp side of the 

wall, 
Tlie iK^a, of course, are on us.' So she 

said. 
Her father earned his life by random 

jobs 
Despised by steadier workmen— keeping 

swine 
On commons, picking hijjw, or hurrying 

on 
The harvest at wet seav^ns, — or, at need. 
Assisting the Welsh drovers, wlien a 

drove 
Of startled horses plunged into the mist 
Below the mountam-road, and sowed the 

wind 
With wandering neighings. In between 

the gaps 
Of such irregular work, he drank and 

slept. 
And cursed his wife because, the pence 

being out. 
She could not buy more drink. At 

which she turned 
(ITie worm) and beat her baby in re- 
venge 
For her own broken heart. There's not 

a crime 
But takes it's proper change oat still in 

crime. 
If once rung on the counter of this 

world ; 
Let sinners look to it. 

Yet the outcast child. 
For whom the very mother's Cace fore- 
went 
The mother's sjiecial patience, lived and 

grew ; 
Learnt early to cry low, and walk alone. 
With that pathetic vacillating roll 
Of the infant body on the uncertain feet, 
(The earth being felt unstable ground so 

V>OIl) 

At which most women's arms unclose at 

once 
With irrepressive instinct. ITius, at 

three. 
This poor weaned kid would run oflf from 

the fold. 
This babe would steal off from the motl>- 

er's chair, 
And, creeping through the golden walls 
] ofgorse. 



372 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Would find some keyhole toward the se- 
crecy 
Of Heaven's high blue, and, nestling 

down, peer out — 
Oh, not to catch the angels at their 

games, 
Slie liad never heard of angels, — but to 

gaze 
She knew not why, to see she knew not 

wliat, 
A-hungering outward from the barren 

earth 
For something like a joy. She liked, she 

said, 
To dazzle black Iver sight against the 

sky, 
For then, it seemed, some grand blind 

Love came down. 
And groped her out, and clasped her 

with a kiss ; 
She learnt God that way, and was beat 

for it 
Whenever she went home, — yet came 

again, 
As surely as the trapped hare, getting 

free, 
Returns to his form. This grand blind 

Love, she said. 
This skyey father and mother both in 

one, 
Instructed her and civilised her more 
Than even Sunday-school did afterward. 
To which a lady sent her to learn books, 
And sit upon a long bench in a row 
With otiier cliildren. Well, she laughed 

sometimes 
To see them laugh and laugh and maul 

their texts ; 
But ofter she was sorrowful with noise. 
And wondered if their mothers beat them 

hard 
That ever they should laugh so. There 

was one 
She loved indeed,— Rose Bell, a seven 

years' child. 
So pretty and clever, who read syllables 
When Marian was at letters ; she would 

laugh 
At nothing — hold your finger up, she 

laughed, 
Then shook her curls down over eyes 

and mouth 
To hide her make-mirth from the school- 
master. 
And Rose's pelting glee, as frank as rain 



On cherry-blossoms, brightened Marian 

too, 
To see another merry whom she loved. 
She whispered once (the children side by , 

side, 
With mutual arms entwined about their i 

necks) 
' Your mother lets you laugh so? ' ' Ay,' 

said Rose, 
' She lets me. She was dug into the ; 

ground 
Six years since, I being but a yearling 

wean. 
Such mothers let us play and lose our rj 

time, [ 

And never scold nor beat us ! don't you i 

wish -1 

You had one like that? ' There, Marian i| 

breaking off 
Looked suddenly in my face. 'Poorrl 

Rose,' said she, 
' I heard her laugh last night in Oxford ][ 

Street. , 

I'd pour out half my blood to stop thatt 

laugh. 
Poor Rose, poor Rose 1 ' said Marian. ' 
She resumed. . 
It tried her, when she had learnt at I 

Sunday-school 
What God was, what he wanted from us < 

all, 
And how in choosing sin we vexed the« 

Christ, 
To go straight home and hear her father i 

pull 
The name down on us from the thunderi 

shelf, 
Then drink away his soul into the dark 
From seeing judgment. Father, mother, 

home, 
Were God and heaven reversed to her ; 

the more 
She knew of Right, the more sheguessedi 

their wrong. 
Her price paid down for knowlegde, was 

to know 
The vileness of her kindred: through 

her heart, 
Her filial and tormented heart, hence^- 

forth, 
They struck their blows at virtue. Oh,; 

'tis hard 
To learn you have a father up in heavenj 
By a gathering certain sense of being^ 
on earth, ; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Still worse than orphaned: 'tis too heavy 

a grief, 
The having to thank God for such a joy ! 

And so passed Marian's life from year to 

/ear. 
Her parents took her with them when 

they tramj^ed, 
Dodged lanes and heaths, frequented 

towns and fairs, 
And once went farther and saw Man- 
chester, 
And once the sea, that blue end of the 

world, 
rhat fair scroll-finis of a wicked book, — 
And twice a prison, back at intervals, 
Returning to the hills. Hills draw like 

heaven, 
/Vnd stronger sometimes, holding out 

their hands 
Fo pull you from the vile flats up to 

them ; 
And though perhaps these strollers still 

strolled back. 
As sheep do, simply that they knew the 

way, 
They certainly felt bettered unaware 
Emerging from the social smut of towns 
To wipe their feet clean on the moantain- 
\ turf 
[n which long wanderings, Marian lived 

and learned, 
Endured and learned. The people on 

the roads 
Would stop and ask her how her eyes 

ou tgrew 
Her cheeks, and if she meant to lodge 

the birds 

[n all that hair; and then they lifted her, 
The miller in his cart, a mile or twain, 
Die butcher's boy on horseback. Often 

too 
The pedlar stopped, and tapped her on 

the head 
With absolute forefinger, brown and 

ringed. 
And asked if peradventure she coiJld 

read ; 
And when she answered ' ay,' would toss 

her down 
Some stray odd volume from his heavy 

pack, 
A Thomson's Seasons, mulcted of the 

Spring. 



Or half a play of Shakspeare's, torn 

across : 
(She liad to guess the bottom of a page 
By just the top sometimes, — as difficult, 
As, sitting on the moon, to guess the 

earth !) 
Or else a sheaf of leaves (for that small 

Ruth's 
Small gleanings) torn out from the heart 

of books, 
From Churchyard Elegies and Edens 

Lost, 
From Burns, and Bunyan, Selkirk, and 

Tom Jones. 
'Twas somewhat hard to keep the things 

distinct, 
And oft the jangling influence jarred the 

child 
Like looking at a sunset full of grace 
Through a pothouse window while the 

drunken oaths 
Went an behind her; but she weeded 

out 
Her book-leaves, threw away the leaves 

that hurt, 
(First tore them small, that none should 

find a word) 
And made a nosegay of the sweet and 

good 
To fold within her breast, and pore upon 
At broken moments of the noontide 

glare. 
When leave was given her to untie her 

cloak 
And rest upon the dusty highway's bank 
From the road's dust. Or oft, the jour- 
ney done. 
Some city friend would lead her by the 

hand 
To hear a lecture at an institute : 
And thus she had grown, this Marian 

Erie of ours. 
To no book-learning,— she was ignorant 
Of authors, — not in earshot of the things 
Out-spoken o'er the heads of common 

men 
By men who are uncommon. — but with- 
in 
The cadenced hum of such, and capable 
Of catching from the fringes of the wind 
Some fragmentary phrases, here and 

there, 
Of that fine music, — which, being carried 

in 
To her soul, had reproduced itself afresh 



AURORA LEIGH. 



In finer motions of the lips and lids. 

She said, in speaking of it, ' if a flower 
Were thrown you out of heaven at inter- 
vals, 
You'd soon attain to a trick of looking 

up,— 
And so with her.* She counted me her 

years, 
Till / felt old ; and then she counted me 
Her sorrowful pleasures, till I felt 

ashamed. 
She told nie she was fortunate and calm 
On such and such a season; sate and 

sewed; 
With no one to break up her crystal 

thoughts ; 
While rhymes from lovely poems span 

around 
Their ringing circles of ecstatic tune. 
Beneath the moistened finger of the 

Hour. 
Her parents called lier a strange, sickly 

child. 
Not good for much, and given to sulk 

and stare. 
And smile into the hedges and the clouds, 
At,d tremble if one shook her from her 

fit 
By any blow or word even. Out-door 

jobs 
Went ill with her ; and household quiet 

work 
She was not born to. Had they kept 

the north, 
They miglit have had their pennyworth 

out of her 
Like other parents, in the factories : 
(Your children work for you, not you for 

them, 
Or else they better had been choked with 

ai-r 
The first breath drawn ;) but, in this 

tramping life. 
Was nothing to be done with such a 

child 
But tramp and tramp. And yet she 

knitted hose 
Not ill, and v,ras not dull at needlework ; 
And all the country people gave her 

pence 
For darning stockings past their natural 

age, 
And patching petticoats from old to new, 



And other light work done for thrifty 
wives. 

One day, said Marian,— the sun shorn 

that day— 
Her mo.her had been badly beat, am 

felt 
The bruises sore about her wretchec) 

sou!, 
(That must have been :) she came '\i\ 

suddenly, 
And snatching in a sort of breathless 

rage 
Her daughter's headgear comb, let dowrl 

the hair . j 

Upon her like a sudden waterfall I 

The.i drew her drenched and passive bv 

the arm 
Outside tlie hut they lived in. Wher 

the child 
Could clear her blinded face from all tha? 

stream 
Of tresses . . there, a man stood, witll 

beasts' eyes 
That seemed as they would swallow he)e 

alive 
Complete in bodv and spirit, hair ancii 

With burning stertorous breath than 

hurt her cheek, 
He breathed so near. The mother helcl' 

her tight. 
Saying hard between her teeth—' Whyi 

wench, why wench, 
Ihe squire speaks to you now — th<i 

sq n're's too good ; 
He means to set you up, and comfon 

us. 
Be mannerly at least.' The child turnec 

round 
And looked up piteous in the mother' 

face, 
(Be sure that mother's death-bed wil 

not want 
Another devil to damn, than such 

look) 
'Oh, mother!' then, with desperate 

glance to heaven, 
'God. free me from my mother,' she' 

shrieked out, 
' These mothers are too dreadful.' And 

with force 
As passionate as fear, she ore her hand; 
Like lilies from the rocks, from hers anc 

his, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And sprang down, bounded headlong 

down the steep, 
Away from both — away, if possible, 
I As 1 ir as God, — away ! They yelled at 
her. 
As famished hounds at a hare. She 

heard them yell, 
, She felt iier name hiss after her from the 
' _ hills. 

Like shot from guns. On, on. And 
now she had cast 
; The voices off with the uplands. On. 
' Mad fear 

^ Was running in her feet and killing the 
I ground; 

The white roads curled as if she burnt 

tliem up, 
tTiie green fields melted, wayside trees 

fell back 
To make room for her. Then Iier head 
■ grew vexed, 
'Trees, fields, turned on her and ran after 

her ; 
\ She heard the quick pants of the hills 
' behind, 

f Their keen air pricked her neck. She 
i liad lost her feet, 
f Could run no more, yet somehow went 
! as fast, 

[The horizon red 'twixt steeples in the 

east 
So sucked her forward, forward, while 

her heart 
Kept swelling, swelling, till it swelled so 

big 
It seemed to fill her body ; when it burst 
And overflowed the world and swamped 

the liglit, 
' And now I am dead and safe,' thought 

Marian Erie — 
She had dropped, she had fainted. 

As the sense returned, 
The night had passed — not life's night. 

She was 'ware 
Of heavy tumbhng motions, creaking 

wheels, 
The driver shouting to the lazy team^ 
That swun-g their rankling bells against 

her brain ; 
Willie, through the waggon's coverture 

and chinks, 
"I lie cruel yellow morning pecked at her 
Alive or dead upon the .straw inside, — 
At which her soul ached back into the 
dark 



And prayed, ' no more of that.* A wag- 
goner 

Had found her in a ditch beneath tlie 
moon. 

As white as moonshine save for the ooz- 
ing blood. 

At first he thought her dead ; but wiien 
he had wiped 

The mouth and heard it sigh, he raised 
her up, 

And laid her in his waggon in the straw. 

And so conveyed her to tlie distant town 

To which his business called himself, and 
left 

That heap of misery at the hospital. 

She stirred ;— the place seemed new and 

strange as death. 
The white strait bed, with others strait 

and white. 
Like graves dug side by side at measured 

lengths. 
And quiet people walking in and out 
With wonderful low voices and soft steps 
And apparitional equal care for each, 
Astonished her witii order, silence, law: 
And when a gentle hand held out a cup, 
She took it, as you do at sacrament. 
Half awed, half melted, — not being used, 

indeed, 
To so much love as makes the form of 

love 
And courtesy of manners. Delicate 

drinks 
And rare white bread, to which some 

dying eyes 
Were turned in observation. O my 

God. 
How sick we must be, ere we make men 

just ! 
I think it frets the saints in heaven to 

see 
How many desolate creatures on the 

earth 
Have learned the simple dues of fellow- 
ship 
And social comfort, in a hospital. 
As Marian did. She lay there, stunned, 

half tranced, 
And wished, at intervals of growing 

sense. 
She might be sicker yet, if sickness 

made 
The world so marvellous kind, the air so 

hushed, 



376 



AURORA LEIGH 



And all her wake-time quiet as a sleep ; 
For now she understood, (as such things 

were) 
How sickness ended very oft in heaven 
Among the unspoken raptures. Yet 

more sick. 
And sureiier happy. Then she dropped 

her lids. 
And, folding up her hands as flowers at 

night, 
Would lose no moment of the blessed 

time. 

She lay and seethed in fever many 

weeks ; 
But youth was strong and overcame the 

test : 
Revolted soul and flesh were reconciled 
And fetched back to the necessary day 
And daylight duties. She could creep 

about 
The long bare rooms, and stare out 

drearily 
From any narrow window on the street, 
Till some one, who had nursed her as a 

friend 
Said coldly to her, as an enemy, 
' She had leave to go next week, being 

well enough,' 
While only her heart ached. * Go next 

week,' thought she, 
' Next week ! how would it be with her 

next week, 
Let out into that terrible street alone 
Among the pushing people, . . to go . . 

where ? ' 

One dav, the last before the dreaded last, 
Among' the convalescents, like herself 
Prepared to go next morning, she sate 

dumb, 
And heard half absently the women talk, 
. How one was famished for her baby's 

cheeks — 
'The little wretch would know her ! a 

vear old 
And' lively, like his father ! ' one was 

keen 
To get to work, and fill some clamorous 

mouths ; 
And one was tender for he dear good- 
man 
Who had missed her sorely. — and one, 

querulous . . 



' Would pay backbiting neighbours who 

had dared 
To talk about her as already dead,' — 
And one was proud . . ' and if her 

sweetheart Luke 
Had left her for a ruddier face than 

hers, 
(The gossip would be seen through at a 

glance) 
Sweet riddance of such sweethearts — let 

him hang ! 
'Twere good to have been as sick for 

such an end.' 



And while they talked, and Marian felt 

the worse 
For having missed the worst of all tlieir 

wrongs, 
A visitor was ushered through the wards 
And paused among the talkers. ' When 

he looked 
It was as if he spoke, and wlien he spoke 
He sang perhaps,' said Marian; 'could 

she tell ? » 

She only knew (so much she had chron- ' 

icled, 
As seraphs might the making of the suti) 
That he who came and spake, was 

Romney Leigh, 
And then, and there, she saw and heard 

him first.' 
And when it was her turn to have the 

face 
Upon her, — all those buzzing pallid lips 
Being satisfied with comfort — when he 

changed 
To Marian, saying, ' And yoit ? you're 

going, where ? ' — 
She, moveless as a worm beneath a 

stone 
Which some one's stumbling foot has 

turned aside, 
Writhed suddenly, astonished with the 

light. 
And breaking into sobs cried, ' Where I 

go? 
None asked me till this moment. Can I 

say 
Where /go? when it has not seemed 

worth while 
To God himself, who thinks of every i 

one, 
To think of me, and fix where I shall 

go?' 



AURORA LEIGH. 



377 



' So young,' he gently asked her, ' you 

have lost 
Vour father and your mother? ' 

Both,' she said, 
' Both lost ! my fatlier was burnt up with 

gin 
Or ever I sucked milk, and so is lost. 
My mother sold me to a man Inst month, 
And so my mother's lost, 'tis nianifest. 
And I, who fled from her for miles and 

miles, 
As if I had caught sight of the fire of hell 
Through some wild gap, (she was my 

mother, sir) 
It seems I shall be lost too, presently, 
And so we end, all three of us.' 

'Poor child!' 
He said, — with such a pity in his voice. 
It soothed her more than her own tears, 

— * poor child 
'Tis simple that betrayal by mother's 

love 
Should bring despair of God's too. Yet 

be taught 
He's belter to us than many mothers 

are, 
And children cannot wander beyond 

reach 
Of the sweep of his white raiment. 

Touch and hold 
And if you weep still, weep where John 

was laid 
While Jesus loved him.' 

She could say the words. 
She told me, ' exactly as he uttered them 
A year back, . . since in any doubt or 

dark 
They came out like the stars, and shone 

on lier 
With just their comfort. Common 

words, perhaps 
The ministers in church might say the 

same ; 
But he, he made the church with what 

he spoke, — 
The difference was the miracle,' said 
she. 

Then catching up her smile to ravish- 
ment, 
She added quickly, ' I repeat his words. 
But not his tones : can any one repeat 
The music of an organ, out of church? 
And when he said ' poor child,' I shut 
my eyes 



To feel how tenderly his voice broke 

through, 
As tiie ointment-box broke on the Holy 

feet 
To let out the rich medicative nard.' 

She told me how he had raised and res- 
cued her 

With reverent pity, as, in touching grief, 

He touched the wounds of Christ, — and 
made her feel 

More self-respecting. Hope, he called, 
belief 

In God, — work, worship . . therefore le» 
us pray ! 

And thus, to snatch her soul from athe- 
ism, 

And keep it stainless from her mother's 
face. 

He sent her to a famous sempstress- 
house 

Far off in London, there to work and - 
hope. 

With that they parted. She kept sight 

of Heaven, 
But not of Romney. He had good to 

do 
To others : through the days and through 

the nights 
She sewed and sewed and sewed. She 

drooped sometimes, 
And wondered, while along the tawny 

light 
She struck tlie new thread into her 

needle's eye, 
How people without mothers on the 

hills 
Could choose the town to live in !— then 

siie drew 
The stitch, and mused how Romney's 

face would look 
And if 'twere hkely he'd remember her's, 
When they too had their meeting after 

death. 



FOURTH BOOK. 

They met still sooner. 'Twas a year 

from thence 
When Lucy Gresham, the sick sempstress 

girl, 
Who sewed by Marian's chair so still and 

quick, 



378 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And leant her head upon its back to 

cough 
More freely when, the mistress turning 

round, 
The others took occasion to laugh out. 
Gave up at last. Among the workers, 

spake 
A bold girl with black eyebrows and red 

lips, 
' You know the news ? Who's dying, do 

you think ? 
Our Lucy Gresham. I expected it 
As little as Nell Hart's wedding. Blush 

not, Nell, 
Thy curls be red enough without thy 

cheeks ; 
And, some day, there'll be found a man 

to dote 
On red curls. — Lucy Gresham swooned 

last night. 
Dropped sudden in the street while going 

home ; 
And now the baker says, who took her 

up 
And laid her by her grandmother in bed, 
He'll give her a week to die in. Pass 

tiie silk. 
Let's hope he gave her a loaf too, within 

reach, 
For otherwise they'll starve before they 

die. 
That funny pair of bedfellows! Miss 

Bell, 
I'll thank you for the scissors. The old 

crone 
Is paralytic— that's the reason why 
Our Lucy's thread went faster than her 

breath, 
Which went too quick, we all know. 

Marian Erie! 
Why, Marian Erie, you're not the fool 

to cry ? 
Your tears spoil Lady Waldemar's new 

dress, 
You piece of pity ! ' 

Marian rose up straight. 

And, breaking through the talk and 
through the work. 

Went outward, in the face of their sur- 
prise, 

To Lucy's home, to nurse her back to 
life 

Or down to death. She knew, by such 
an act 



All place and grace were forfeit in the 
house, 

Whose mistress would supply the miss- 
ing hand 

With necessary, not inhuman haste. 

And take no blame. But pity, too, had 
dues ; 

She could not leave a solitary soul 

I'o founder in the dark, while she sate 
still 

And lavished stitches on a lady's hem 

As if no ;>ther work were paramount. 

' Why, God,' thought Marian, ' has a 
missing hand 

This moment ; Lucy wants a drink, per- 
haps. 

Let others miss me ! never miss mo, 
God!' 

So Marian sat by Lucy's bed content 
With duty, and was strong, for recom- \ 

pense. 
To hold the lamp of human love arm- 
high 
To catch the death-strained eyes and , 

comfort them. 
Until the angels, on the luminous side 
Of death, had got theirs ready. And she 

said. 
When Lucy thanked her sometimes, 

called her kind. 
It touched her strangely. ' Marian Erie 

called kind ! 
What, Marian, beaten and sold, who 

could not die ! 
'Tis verily good fortune to be kind. 
Ah, you,' "she said, ' who are born to 

such a grace, 
Be sorry for the unlicensed class, the 

poor. 
Reduced to think the best good fortime 

means 
That others, simply, should be kind to 

them.' 

From sleep to sleep while Lucy slid 

away 
So gently, like a light upon a hill, 
Ot which none names the moment that 

it goes 
Though all see when 'tis gone,— a man 

came in 
And stood beside the bed. The old idiot 

wretch 
Screamed feebly, like a baby overlain, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



379 



' Sir, sir, you won't mistake me for the 

corpse ? 
Don't look at tne, sir ! never bury me I 
Although I lie here I'm as live as you, 
Except my legs and arms, — I eat and 

drink, 
And understand, — (that you're the gen- 
tleman 
Who fits the funerals up, Heaven speed 

you, sir,) 

And certainly I should be livelier still 
If Lucy here . . sir, Lucy is the 

corpse . . 
Had worked more properly tcr buy me 

wine : 

But Lucy, sir; was always slow at work, 
L shan't lose much by Lucy. Marian 

Erie. 
jpeak up and show the gentleman the 

corpse.' 

Vnd then a voice said, ' Marian Erie.' 

She rose : 
t was the hour for angels — there, stood 

hers I 
5he scarcely marvelled to see Romney 

Leigh. 
is light November snows to empty 

nests, 
\.o grass to graves, as moss to mildewed 

stones, 

V.S July suns to ruins, through the rents, 
ks ministering spirits to mourners, 

through a loss, 
is Heaven itself to men, through pangs 

of death 
le came uncalled wherever grief had 

come. 
And so,' said Marian Erie, ' we met 

anew,' 
k.nd added softly, ' so, we shall not part.' 
le was not angry that she had left the 

house 
Vherein he placed her. Well — she had 

feared it might 
lave vexed him. Also, when he fomid 

her set 
)n keeping, though the dead was out of 

sight, ' 
'hat halfdead, half-live body left be- 

/ith c.Hnkerous heart and flesh, — which 

took your best 
ind cursed you for the little good it 

did. 



(Could any leave the bed-rid wretch 

alone. 
So joyless she was thankless even to 

God, 
Much more to you ?) he did not say 'twas 

well. 
Yet Marian thought he did not take it 

ill,— 
Since day by day he came, and every 

day 
She felt within his utterance and his eyes 
A closer, tenderer presence of the soul. 
Until at last he said, * We shall not 

part.' 

On that same day, was Marian's work 

complete : 
She had smoothed the empty bed, and 

swept the floor 
Of coffin sawdust, set the chairs anew 
The dead had ended gossip in, and 

stood 
In that poor room so cold and orderly. 
The door-key in her hand, prepared to 

go 
As iAejf had, howbeit not their way. He 

spoke. 



' Dear Marian, of one clay God made us 

all, 
And though men push and poke and 

paddle in't 
(As children play at fashioning dirt-pies) 
And call their fancies by the name of 

facts. 
Assuming difference, lordship, privilege. 
When all's plain dirt, — they come back 

to it at last ; 
The first grave digger proves it with a 

spade, 
And pass all even. Need we wait for 

this. 
You, Marian, and I, Romney ? ' 

She, at that. 
Looked blindly in his face, as when one 

looks 
Through driving autumn-rains to find the 

sky. 
He went on speaking. 

' Marian, I being born 
What men call noble, and you, issued 

from 
The noble people,— though the tyrannous 

sword 



38o 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Which pierced Christ's heart, has cleft 

the world in twain 
1'wixt class and class, opposing rich to 

poor, 
Shall we keep parted? Not so. Let 

us lean 
And strain together rather, each to each, 
Compress the red lips of this gaping 

wound. 
As far as two souls can, — a}', lean and 

league, 
I, from my superabundance, — from your 

want 
You, — ^joining in a protest 'gainst the 

wrong 
On both sides ! ' 

All the rest, he held her hand 
In speaking, which confused the sense of 

much ; 
Her heart against his words beat out so 

thick, 
They might as well be written on the 

dust 
Wiiere some poor bird, escaping from 

hawk's beak, 
Has dropped and beats ts shuddering 

wings, — the lines 
Are rubbed so, — yet 'twas something like 

to this, 
■ — ' That they two, standing at the two 

extremes 
Of social classes, had received one seal, 
Been dedicate and drawn beyond tliem- 

selves 
To mercy and ministration, — he, indeed, 
Through what he knew, and she, through 

what she felt. 
He, by man's conscience, she, by wo- 
man's heart. 
Relinquishing their several 'vantage 

posts 
Of wealthy ease and honourable toil. 
To work with God at love. And since 

God willed 
That putting out his hand to touch this 

ark. 
He found a woman's hand there, he'd 

accept 
The sign too, hold the tender fingers 

fast, 
And say, ' My fellow-worker, be my 

wife ! ' 

She told the tale with simple, rustic 
turns, — 



Strong leaps of meaning in Jier sudden 
eyes 

That took the gaps of any imperfect t 
phrase 

Of the unschooled speaker : I have rather r 
writ 

The tiling I understood so, than the 
thing 

I heard so. And I cannot render right 

Her quick gesticulation, wild yet soft, 

Self startled from the habitual mood she 
used. 

Half sad, half languid,— like dumb crea- 
tures (now 

A rustling bird, and now a wandering-;, 
deer, 

Or scjuirrel 'gainst the oak-gloom flash- j- 
ing up ' 

His sidelong burnished head, in just hef i 
way 

Of savage spontaneity,) that stir 

Abruptly the green silence of the woods, 

And make it stranger, holier, more pro- 
found; 

As Nature's general heart confessed itself i 

Of life, and then fell backward on re- 
pose. 

I kissed the lips that ended.—' So in- 
deed 

He loves you, Marian ?' 

'Loves me ! ' She looked up 

With a child's wonder when you ask 
him first 

Who made the sun — a puzzled blush, 
that grew. 

Then broke off in a rapid radiant smile 

Of sure solution. ' Loves me I he loves ; 
all,— 

And me, of course. He had not asked I 
me else 

To work with him for ever and be his \ 
wife.' 

Her words reproved me. This perhaps 

was love — 
To have its hands too full of gifts to 

give, 
For putting out a hand to take a gift ; 
To love so much, the perfect round of 

love 
Includes, in strict conclusion, being; 

loved ; 
As Eden -dew went up and fell again. 
Enough for watering Eden. Obviously J 



AURORA LEIGH. 



She had not thoueht about his love at 

all: 
The cataracts of her soul had poured 

themselves, 
And risen self-crowned in rainbow ; would 

she ask 
Who crowned her ? — it sufficed that she 

was crowned. 
With women of my class, 'tis otherwise: 
We haggle for the small change of our 

gold. 
And so much love accord for so much 

love, 
Rialto-prices. Are we therefore wrong? 
If marriage be a contract, look to it then, 
Contracting parlies should be equal, 

just ; 
But if a simple fealty on one side, 
A mere religion, — right to give, is all, 
And certain brides of Europe duly ask 
To mount the pile as Indian widows do, 
The spices of their tender youth heaped 

up, 
The jewels of their gracious virtues 

worn. 
More gems, rrore glory, — to consume 

entire 
For a living husband : as the man's 

alive, 
Not dead, the woman's duty by so 

nuich, 
Advanced in England beyond Hindos- 

tan. 

I sate there musing, till she touched my 

hand 
With liers, as softly as a strange white 

bird 
She feared to startle in touching. ' You 

are kind. 
But are you, peradventure, vexed at 

heart 
Because your cousin takes me for a wife ? 
I know I am not worthy — nay, in truth, 
I'm glad cn't, since, for that,'he ciiooses 

me. 
He likes the poor things of the world the 

best ; 
r would not therefore, if I nould, be 

rich, 
(t pleasures him to stoop for buttercups ; 
t would not be a rose upon the wall 
A queen might stop at, near the palace- 
door, 



To say to a courtier, ' Pluck that rose 

for mo, 
' It's prettier than the rest.' O Romney 

Leigh ! 
I'd rather far be trodden by his foot. 
Than lie in a great queen's bosom.' 

Out of breath 
She paused. 

' Sweet Marian, do you disavow 
The roses with that face ? ' 

She dropt her head. 
As if the wind had caught that flower of • 

her. 
And bent it in the garden,— then looked 

up 
With grave assurance. ' Well, you think 

me bold ! 
But so we all are, when we're praying 

God. 
And if I'm bold — yet, lady, credit me, 
That, since I know myself for what I 

am, 
Much fitter for his handmaid than his 

wife, 
I'll prove the handmaid and the wife at 

once, 
Serve tenderly, and love obediently. 
And be a worthier mate, perhaps, than 

some 
Who are wooed in silk among their 

learned books ; 
While / shall set myself to read his eyes, 
Till such grow plainer to me than the 

French 
To wisest ladies. Do you think I'll miss 
A letter, in the spelling of his mind ? 
No more than they do when they sit and 

write 
Their flying words with flickering wild- 
fowl tails, 
Nor ever pause to ask how many ^s. 
Should that be y or / — they know't so 

well : 
I've seen them writing, when I brought 

a dress 
And waited, — floating out their soft wliite 

hands 
On shining paper. But they're hard 

sometimes, 
For all those hands ! — we've used out 

many nights, 
And worn the yellow daylight into shreds 
Which flapped and shivered down our 

aching eyes 
Till night appeared more tolerable, just 



382 



AURORA LEIGH. 



That pretty ladies might look beautiful, 
Who said at last . . ' You're lazy in that 

house ! 
' You're slow in sending home the work, 

— I count 
' I've waited near an hour for't.' Pardon 

me, 
I do not blame them, madam, nor mis- 
prize ; 
They are fair and gracious ; ay, but not 

like you, 
Since none but you has Mr. Leigh's own 

blood 
Both noble and gentle, — and without 

it . . well. 
They are fair, I said ; so fair, it scarce 

seems strange 
That, flashing out in any looking-glass 
The wonder of their glorious brows and 

breasts. 
They are charmed so, they forget to look 

behind 
And mark how pale we've grown, we 

pitiful 
Remainders of the world. And so per- 
haps 
If Mister Leigh had chosen a wife from 

these, 
She might . . although he's better than 

her best, 
And dearly she would know it . . steal 

a thought 
Which should be all his, an eye-glance 

from his face, 
To plunge into the mirror opposite 
In search of her own beauty's pearl : 

while / . . 
Ah, dearest lady, serge will outweigh 

silk 
For winter-wear when bodies feel a-cold. 
And I'll be a true wife to your cousin 

Leigh.' 

Before I answered he was there himself. 
I think he had been standing in the 

room 
And listened probably to half her talk, 
Arrested, turned to stone, — as white as 

stone. 
Will tender sayings make men look so 

white ? 
lie loves her then profoundly. 

' You are here, 
Aurora? Here I meet you ! '—We 

clasped l^nds. 



' Even so, dear Romney. Lady Walds- 

mar 
Has sent me in haste to find a cousin of 

mine 
Who shall be.' 

' Lady Waldemar is good. ' 

' Here's one, at least, who is good,' I 

sighed, and touched 
Poor Marian's happy bead, as, doglike 

she 
Most passionately patient, waited on, 
A-tremble for her turn of greeting words ; 
' I've sat a full hour with your Marian 

Erie, 
And learnt the thing by heart,— and, 

from my heart. 
Am therefore competent to give you 

thanks 
For such a cousin.' 

' You accept at last 
A gift from me, Aurora, without scorn ? 
At last I please you?'- How his voice 

was changed ! 

* You cannot please a woman against her 
will, 

And once you vexed me. Shall we 
speak of that ? 

We'll say, then, you were noble in it all 

And I not ignorant — let it pass. And 
now 

You please me, Romney, when you 
please yourself; 

So, please you, be fanatical in love. 

And I'm well pleased. Ah, cousin ! at 
the old liall, 

Among the gallery portraits of our 
Leighs, 

We shall not find a sweeter signory 

Than this pure forehead's.' 

Not a word he said. 

How arrogant men are ! — Even philan- 
thropists, 

Who try to take a wife up in the way 

They put down a subscription-cheque, — 
if once 

She turns and says, ' I will not tax you 
so, 

Most charitable sir,'— feel ill at ease. 

As though she had wronged them some- 
how. I suppose 

We woman should remember what we 
are, 

And not throw back an obolus inscribed 



AURORA LEIGH. 



383 



Yith C«saf's image, lightly. I resum- 
ed. 

It strikes me, some of those sublime 

Vandykes 
Vcre not 'too proud to make good samts 

in heaven ; 
^nd if so, then they're not too proud to- 

Po bow down (now the ruffs are off their 

necks) . 

\nd own this good, true, noble Marian, 

. . yours, 
\nd mine, I'll say I— For poets (bear 

the word) 
Half-poets even, are still whole demo- 
crats, — 
Dh, not that we're disloyal to the high, 
But loyal to the low, and cognisant 
3f the'less scrutable majesties.^ Forme, 
[ comprehend your choice- 1 justify 
y^our rigiit in choosing.' . 

' No, no, no,' he sighed. 
With a sort of melancholy impatient 

scorn, 
As some grown man, who never had a 

child, 
Puts by some child wlio plays at being a 

man, 
— ' You did not, do not, cannot compre- 
hend 
My choice, my ends, my motives, nor 

myself: 
No matter now— we'll let it pass, you 

say. 
I thank you for your generous cousin- 
ship 
Which helps this present ; I accept for 

her 
Your favourable thoughts. \V e re fallen 

on days. 
We two who are not poets, when to wed 
Requires less mutual love than common 

love, 
For two together to bear out at once 
Upon the loveless many. Worl^ in 

pairs, 
In galley-couplings or in marnage-nngs. 
The difference lies in the honour, not the 

work, — 
And such we're bound to, I and she. 

But love, 
(You poets are benighted in this age ; 
The hour's too late for catching even 
moths, 



You've gnats instead,) love !— love's fool- 
paradise 
Is out of date, like Adam's. Set a swan 
To swim the Trenton, rather than true 

love 
To float its fabulous plumage safely 

down 
The cataracts of this loud transition- 
time, — 
Whose roar, for ever henceforth in my 

ears 
Must keep me deaf to music' 

There, I turned 
And kissed poor Marian, out of discon- 

teni. 
The man had baffled, chafed me, till I 

flung 
For refuge to the woman, — as, some- 
times. 
Impatient of some crowded room's close 

smell. 
You throw a window open and lean out 
To breathe a long breath in the dewy 

night 
And cool your angry forehead. She, at 

least. 
Was not built up as walls are, brick by 

brick ; 
Each fancy squared, each feeling ranged 

by line, 
The very heat of burning youth applied 
To indurate forms and systems ! excel- 
lent bricks, 
A well-built wall,— which stops you on 

the road, 
And, into which, you cannot see an inch 
Although you beat your head against it 
— pshaw 1 

' Adieu,' I said, ' for this time, cousins 

both ; 
And, cousin Romney, pardon me the 

word, 
Be happy I— oh, in some esoteric sense 
Of course 1— I mean no harm in wishing 

well. 
Adieu, my Marian : —may she come to 

me, 
Dear Romney, and be married from my 

house ? 
It is not part of your philosophy 
To keep vourljird upon the blackthorn ? ' 
' Ay,' 
He answered, ' but it is :— I take my wife 



3^4 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Directly from the people, — and she 

comes 
As Austria's daughter to imperial Franc;, 
Betwixt her eagles, blinking not her 

race. 
From Margaret's Court at garret-height, 

to meet 
And wed me at St. James's, nor put off 
Her gown of serge for that. The things 

we do, 
We do : we'll wear no mask, as if we 

blushed.' 

' Dear Romney, you're the poet,' I re- 
plied, 
But felt my smile too mournful for my 

word, 
And turned and went. Ay, masks, I 

thought,— beware 
Of tragic masks we tie before the glass, 
Uplifted on the cothurn halt' a yard 
Above the natural stature 1 we would 

play 
Heroic parts to ourselves, — and end, 

perhaps, 
As impotently as Athenian wives 
Who shrieked in fits at the Eumenides. 

His foot pursued me down the stair. 
• At least, 

You'll suffer me to walk with you beyond 

'J'hese hideous streets, these graves, 
where men alive, 

Packed close with earthworms, burr un- 
consciously 

About the plague that slew them; let 
me go. 

The very women pelt their 30uls in mud 

At any womau who walks here alone. 

How came you here alone ? — you are 
ignorant.' 

We had a strange and melancholy walk : 

The night came drizzling downward in 
dark rain ; 

And, as we walked, the colour of the 
time. 

The act, the presence, my hand upon his 
arm. 

His voice in my ear, and mine to my 
own sense, 

Appeared unnatural. We talked modern 
books, 

And daily papers; Spanish marriage- 
schemes, 



And English climate — was't so cold last 
year? 

And w ill the wind change by to-morrow i 
morn ? 

Can Guizot stand? is London full? is '^ 
trade 

Compeitive? has Dickens turned his 
hinge 

A-pinch upon the fingers of the great? 

And are potatoes to grow mythical 

Like moly ? will the apple die out too? 

Which way is the wind to-night? south- 
east ? due east ? 

We talked on fast, while every common, 
word 

Seemed tangled with the thunder at one :; 
end, 

And ready to pull down upon our heads 

A terror out of sight. And yet to paUse ' 

Were surelier mortal : we tore greedily { 
up 

All silence, all the innocent breathing- 
points. 

As if, like pale conspirators in haste. 

We tore up papers where our signatures 1 

Imperilled us to an ugly shame or death. 



T cannot tell you why it was. 'Tis plain 

We had not loved nor hated : wherefore q 
dread 

To spill gunpowder on ground safe from 
fire ? 

Perhaps we had lived too closely, to di- 
verge 

So absolutely: leave two clocks, they* 
say. 

Wound up to different hours, upon one: 
shelf, 

And slowly, through the interior wheels; 
of each. 

The blind mechanic motion sets itself 

A-throb to feel out for the mutual time. 

It was not so with us, indeed. While 
he 

Struck midnight, I kept striking six at 
dawn, 

While he marked judgment, I, redemp- 
tion-day ; 

And such exception to a general law, 

Imperious upon inert matter even. 

Might make us, each to either, insecure, 

A beckoning mystery or a troubling fear. 

I mind me, when we parted at the door. 



AURORA 



LEIGH. 



385 



How strange his good-niglit sounded,— 
like ^ood-night 

Beside a deathbed, where the monow s 
sun 

Is sure to come too late for more good 
davs. 

And all that night I thought . . Good- 
night,' said he. 

And so, a month passed. Let me set it 

down 
At once, — I have been wrong, I have 

been wrong. 
We are wrong always when we thmk too 

much 
Of what we think or are ; albeit our 

thoughts 
Be verilv bitter as self-sacrifice. 
We're not less selfish. If we sleep on 

rocks 
Or roses, sleeping past the hour of noon 
We're lazv. This I write against my- 
self. 
I had done a duty in the visit paid 
To Marian, and was ready otherwise 
To give the witness of my presence and 

name . 

Whenever she should marry.— VV hich, i 

thought, , 

Sufficed. I even had cast into the scale 
An overweight of justice toward the 

match ; . , , 

The Lady Waldemar liad missed her 

tool, . , . 

Had broken it in the lock as being too 

straight 
Tor a crooked purpose, while poor Ma- 
rian Erie 
Missed nothing in my accents or my 

acts: 
I had not been ungenerous on the wliole. 
Nor yet untender ; so. enough. I felt 
Tired, overworked : this marriage some- 

wliat jarred. 
Or, if it did not, all the bridal noise . . 
The pricking of the map of hfti- with 

la schemes of . . ' Here U'e'll go,' and 

' There we'll stay,' 
And ' everywhere we'll prosper m our 

love,' 
Was scarce my businc-js. Let them 

order if, 
Who else should care ? 1 threw myself 

aside, 



As one who had done her work and 
shuts her eyes 

To rest the better. 

I, who should have known, 

Forereckoned mischief 1 Where we dis- 
avow , . 

Being keeper to our brother we re his 
Cain. 

I might have held that poor child to my 

heart , 

A little longer I 'twould have hurt me 

much 
To have hastened by its beats the mar- 
riage day. 
And kept her safe meantime from tamp- 
ering hands 
Or, peradventure, traps. What drew me 

back 
From telling Romney plainly the de- 
signs 
Of Lady Waldemar, as spoken out _ 
To me . . me ? had I any right, ay, right. 
With womanly compassion and reserve 
To break the fall of woman's impu- 
dence?— , . 1 , T 
To stand by calmly, knowing what 1 

knew, 
And hear him call her ^ood ? 

Distrust that word. 
'There is none good save God,' said 

Jesus Christ. 
If He once, in the tirst creation-week. 
Called creatures good,— for ever after- 
ward, . . 
The Devil only has done it, and his 

heirs. 
The knaves who win so, and the tools 

who lose ; 
The word's grown dangerous. In the 

middle age, 
I think they called malignant fays and 

Good people. A good neighbour, even 

in this, 
Is fatal sometimes,— cuts your mormns 

To ii'iince-meat of the very smallest 

Then iie'lps to sugar her bohea at night 
With your reputation. I have known 

good wives, - , 

As chaste, or nearly so, as Potiphar s • 
And good, good mothers, who would use 

a child 



386 



AURORA LEIGH. 



To better an intrigue ; good friends, 

beside, 
(Very good) who hung succinctly round 

your neck 
And sucked your breath, as cats are 

fabled to do 
By sleeping infants. And we all have 

known 
Good critics who have stamped out 

poet's hopes ; 
Good statesmen who pulled ruin on the 

• state ; 
Good patriots who for a theory risked a 

cause ; 
Good kings who disembowelled for a 

tax ; 
Good popes who brought all good to 

jeopardy ; 
Good Christians who sate still in easy 

chairs 
And damned the general world for stand- 
ing up.— 
Now may the good God pardon all good 

men 1 

How bitterly I sjieak,— how certainly 
The innocent white milk in us is turned, 
By mucli persistent shining of the sun 1 
Shake up the sweetest in us long enough 
With men, it drops to foolish curd, too 

sour 
To feed the most unteuder of Christ's 

lambs. 

I should have thought . . a woman of 

tlie world 
Like her I'm meaning, — centre to her- 
self, 
Who has wheeled on her own pivot half a 

life 
In isolated self-love and self-will, 
As a windmill seen at distance radiating 
Its delicate white vans against the .sky, 
So soft and soundless, simply beautiful. 
Seen nearer . . what a roar and tear it 

makes, 
How it grinds and bruises ! . . if she 

loves at last 
Her love's a e-adjustment of self-love, 
No more ; a need felt of anotiier's use 
To her one advantage, — as the mill wants 

grain, 
The fire wants fuel, the very wolf wants 

prey, 
And none of these is more unscrupulous 



Than such a charming woman when she 
loves. 

She'll not be thwarted by an obstacle 

So trifling as . . her soul is, . . much 
less yours ! — 

Is God a consideration? — she \o\ts you. 

Not God ; she will not flinch for Him 
indeed; 

She did not for the Marchioness of 
Perth, 

When wanting tickets for the fancy-ball. 

She loves you, sir, with passion, to luna- 
cy ; 

She loves you like her diamonds . . al- 
most. 

Well, 

A month passed so, and then the notice 
came ; 

On such a day the marriage at the 
church. 

I was not backward. 

Half St. Giles in frieze 

Was bidden to meet St. James in cloth 
of gold. 

And, after contract at the altar, pass 

To eat a marriage feast on Hampstead 
Heath. 

Of course the people came in uncom- 
pelled, 

Lame, blind, and worse — sick, sorrowful, 
and worse, 

The liumours of the peccant social 
wound 

All pressed out, poured down upon Pim- 
lico. 

Exasperating the unaccustomed air 

With hideous interfusion : you'd sup- 
pose 

A finished generation, dead of plague, 

Swept outward from their graves into 
the sun. 

The moil of death upon them. What a 
sight ! 

A holiday of miserable men 

Is sadder than a burial-day of kings. 

They clogged the streets, they oozed into 

the church 
In a dark slow stream like blood. To 

see that sight, 
The noble ladies stood up in their pews, 
Some pale for fear, a few as red for liate, 
Some simply curious, some just insolent. 
And some in wondering scorn,— 'What 

next? what next? ' 



AUI^ORA LEIGH. 



387 



These crushed their delicate rose-lips 
from the Kniiie 

That misbecame them in a holy place, 

^Viili broidered liems of perfumed hand- 
kerchiefs : 

Those passed the salts with confidence 
of eyes 

\nd simultaneous shiver of moire silk; 

While all the aisles, alive and black 
with heads, 

brawled slowly toward the altar from 
the street, 

.\s bruised snakes crawl and hiss out of 
a hole 

With shuddering involution, swaying 
slow 

From right to left, and then from left 
to right. 

In pants and pauses. What nn ugly 
crest 

Df faces rose upon you everywhere 

From that crammed mass ! you did not 
usually 

>>ee faces like them in the open day : 

They hide in cellars, nut to make you 
mad 

As Romney Leigh is. — Faces ! — O my 
God. 

We call those, faces? men's and wo- 
men's . . ay, 

And children's ;— babies, hanging like a 
rag 

Forgotten on their mother's neck, — poor 
months, 

Wiped clean of mother's milk by moth- 
er' s blow 

Before they are taught her cursing. 
Faces ? . . phew, 

We'll call them vices festering to des- 
pairs, 

Or sorrows petrifying to vices : not 

A finger-touch of God left whole on 
them ; 

All ruined, lost— the countenance worn 
out 

As the garment, the will dissolute as the 
actl _ u 

The passions loose and drangling in the 
dirt 

To trip the foot up at the first free 
step ! 

Those, faces ! 'twas as if you had stirred 
up hell 

To heave its lowest dreg-fiends upper- 
most 



In fiery swirls of slime, — such strangled 

fronts, 
Such obdurate jaws were thrown up 

constantly 
To twit you with your race, corrupt 

your blood. 
And grind to devlish colours all your 

dreams 
Henceforth, . . though, haply, you 

should drop asleep 
By clink of silver waters, in a muse 
On Raffael's mild Madonna of the Bird. 

I've waked and slept through many 

nights and days 
Since then, — but still that day will catch 

my breath 
Like a nightmare. There are fatal days, 

indeed. 
In which the fibrous j'ears have taken 

root 
So deejily, that they quiver to their tops 
Whene're you stirihe dust of such a day. 

My cousin met me with liis eyes and 
hand, 

And then, with just a word, . . that 
' Marian Erie 

Was coming with her bridesmaids 
presently,' 

Made haste to place me by the altar- 
stair. 

Where he and other noble gentlemen 

And high-born ladies, waited for the 
bride. 

We waited. It was early : there was 

time 
For greeting, and the morning's com- 
pliment ; 
And gradually a ripple of women's talk 
Arose and fell, and tossed about a spray 
Of English .fs, soft as a silent liiish. 
And, notwithstanding, quite as audible 
As louder phrases thrown out by tlie men. 
— ' Yes, really, if we need to wait in 

church, 
We need to talk there. '—' She ? 'Tis 

Lady Ayr, 
In blue — not purple ! that's the dow- 
ager.' 
— ' She looks as young.'—' She flirts as 

young, you mean. 
Why if you had seen her upon Thursday 
night, 



3SS 



AURORA 
Yc 



You'd call Miss Norris modest 

again ! 
I waltzed with you three hours back. 

Up at six, 
Up still at ten : scarce time to change 

one's shoes. 
1 feel as white and sulky as a f!;host, 
•So pray don't speak to me, Lord Belch- 
er.'' — ' No, 
I'll look at you instead, and it's enough 
While you have that face.' — ' In church, 

my lord ! fie, fie ! ' 
— 'Adair, you stayed for the Division?' 

— ' Lost 
By one.' — 'The devil it is! I'm sorry 

for't. 
And if I had not promised Mistress 

Grove ' . . 
— ' You miglit have kept your word to 

Liverpool.' 
* Constituents must remember, after all, 
We're mortal.'—' We remind them of it.' 

— ' Hark, 
The bride comes ! Here she comes, in 

a stream of milk ! ' 
—'There? Dear, you are asleep still; 

don't you know 
The five Jiliss Granvilles? always dress- 
ed in white 
To show they're ready to be married.' — 

' Lower ! 
The aunt is at your elbow.'—' Lady 

Maud, 
Did Lady Waldemar tell you she had 

seen 
This girl of Leigh's ? '— ' No,— wait ! 

'twas Mistress Brookes, 
Who told me Lady Waldemar told 

her — 
No, 'twasn't Mrs. Brookes.'—' She's 

pretty ?'—' Who? 
Mrs. Brookes? Lady Waldemar?'— 

' How hot ! 
Pray is't the law to-day we're not to 

breathe ? 
You're treading on my shawl— I tliank 

you, sir ' 
— ' They say the bride's a mere child, w ho 

can't read. 
But knows the things she shouldn't, with 

wide-awake 
Great eyes. I'd go through fire to look 

at her.' 
— ' You do, I think.'— 'And Lady Walde- 
mar 



LEIGH. 

(You see her ; sitting close to Roraney 

Leigh ; 
How beautiful she looks, a little flush- 
ed !) 
Has taken up the girl, and metl^odised 
Leigh's folly. Should I have come here, , 

you suppose, 
Except she'd asked ine J' — ' She'd have 

served him more 
By marrying him herself.' 

' Ah— there she comes, 
The bride, at last ! ' 

' Indeed, no. Past eleven. 
She puts off her pniclied petticoat to-day t^ 
And puts on May-fair manners, so be- 
gins . , - 
By setting us to wait. — ' \ es, yes, this ? 

Leigh 
Was always odd ; it's in the blood. I 

think ; 
His father's uncle's cousin's second son 
Was, was . . you understand me —and i 

for him. 
He's stark! — has turned quite lunatic 

upon 
This modern question of the poor— the 

poor : 
An excellent subject when you're mode- 
rate ; 
You've seen Prince Albert's model lodg- 
ing-house ? 
Does honour to his royal highness. 

Good ! 
But would he stop his carriage in Clieap- 

side 
To shake a common fellow by the fist 
Whose name was . . Shakspeare? no. 

We draw a line. 
And if we stand not by our order, we 
In England, we fall headlong. Here's a 

sight,— 
A hideous sight, a most indecent sight 
My wife would come, sir; or I had kept 

her back. 
By lieaven, sir, when poor Damiens' 

trunk and limbs 
Were torn by horses, women of the 

court 
Stood by and stared, exactly as to-day 
On this dismembering of society, 
With pretty troubled faces.' 

' Now, at last. 
She comes now.' ' 

' Where? who sees' you push me, sir, 
Beyond the point of what is mannerly. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



3S9 



You're standing, madam, on my second 

flounce 
[ do beseech you.' 

' No— it's not the bride. 
Half-past eleven. How late. The 

bridegroom, mark. 
Gets anxious and goes out.' 

' And as I said, 
rhese Leighs ! our best blood running in 

the rut ! 
[t's something awful. We had pardoned 

him 
A. simple misalliance, got up aside 
For a pair of sky-blue eyes ; our House 

of Lords 
Has winked at such things, and we've 

all been young. 
But here's an inter-marriage reasoned 

out, 
A. contract (carried boldly to the light 
ro cliallenge observation, pioneer 
jood acts by a great example) 'twixt the 

extremes 
Df martyrised society,— on the left 
I'he well-born, — on the right the merest 

mob, 
Po treat as equals !— 'tis anarchical ! 
it means more than it says— 'tis damna- 
ble. 
Why, sir, we can't have even our coffee 

good, 
Unless we strain it.' 

' Here, Miss Leigh ! ' 

' Lord Howe, 
You're Romney's friend. What's all 

this waiting for ? ' 

' I cannot tell. The bride has lost her 
head 

(And, way perhaps !) to prove her sym- 
pathy 

With the bridegroom.' 

' What, —you also disapprove ! ' 

' Oh, I approve of nothing in the world,' 
He answered; 'not of you, still less of 

me, 
Nor even of Romney— though he's 

worth us both. 
We're all gone wrong. The tune in us 

is lost: 
And whistHng down back alleys to the 

moon. 
Will never catch it. 



Let me draw Lord Howe ; 
A born aristocract, bred radical. 
And educated socialist, who still 
Goes floating, on traditions of his kind. 
Across the theoretic flood from France, 
Though, like a drenched Noah on a rot- 
ten deck, 
Scarce safer for his place there. He, at 

least. 
Will never land on Ararat, he knows. 
To recommence the world on the new 

plan : 
Indeed, he thinks, said world had better 

end ; 
He sympathises rather with the fish 
Outside, than with the drowned paired 

beasts within 
Who cannot couple again or multiply : 
And that's the sort of Noah he is, Lord 

Howe. 
He never could be anything complete. 
Except a loyal, upright gentleman, 
A liberal landlord, graceful diner-out. 
And entertainer more than hospitable. 
Whom authors dine with and forget the 

hock 
Whatever he believes, and it is much, 
But no-wise certain . . now here and 

now there. 
He still has sympathies beyond his creed 
Diverting him from action. In the 

House, 
No party counts upon him, while for all 
His speeches have a noticeable weight. 
Men like his books too, (lie has written 

books) 
Which, safe to He beside a bishop's 

chair. 
At times outreach themselves with jets 

of fire 
At which the foremost of the progress- 
ists 
May warm audacious hands in passing 

by- 

— Of stature over-tall, lounging for ease: 
Light hair, that seems to carry a wind 

in it. 
And eyes that, when they look on you, 

will lean 
Their whole weight half in indolence 

and half 
In wishing you unmitigated good. 
Until you know not ifto flinch from him 
Or thank him. — 'Tis Lord Howe. 

' We're all gone wrong,' 



390 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Said he, ' and Romney, that dear friend 

of ours, 
Is no-wise right. There's one true 

thing on earth ; 
That's love ! He takes it up, and 

dresses it, 
And acts a play with it, as Hamlet did. 
To show what cruel uncles we have 

been. 
And how we should be uneasy in our 

minds 
While he, Prince Hamlet, weds a pretty 

maid 
(Who keeps us too long wailing, we'll 

confess) 
By symbol, to instruct us formally 
To fill the ditches up 'twixt class and 

class. 
And live together in phalansteries. 
What then ?— he's mad, our Hamlet ! 

clap his play, 
And bind him.' 

' Ah, Lord Howe, this spectacle 
Pulls stronger at us than the Dane's. 

See there ! 
The crammed aisles heave and strain and 

steam with life — 
Dear Heaven, what life ! ' 

' Why, yes, — a poet sees ; 
Which makes him different from a com- 
mon man. 
/, too, see somewhat, though I cannot 

sing ; 
I sliould have been a poet, only that 
My mother took fright at the ugly 

world. 
And bore me tongue-tied. If j'ou'U grant 

me now 
That Romney gives us a fine actor-piece 
I'o make us merry on his marriage- 
morn, 
'I'he fable's worse than Hamlet's, I'll 

concede. 
The terrible people, old and poor and 

blind. 
Their eyes eat out with plague and 

poverty 
From seeing beautiful and cheerful sights. 
We'll liken to a brutalised King Lear, 
Led out, — by no means to clear scores 

with wrongs — 
His wrongs are so far back, . . he has 

forgot ; 
All's past like youth ; but just to witness 

here 



A simple contract, — he, upon his side. 

And Regan with her sister Goneril 

And all the dappled courtiers and court- 
fools, 

On their side. Not that any of these 
would say 

They're sorry, neither. What is done, 
is done. 

And violence is now turned privilege, 

As cream turns cheese, if buried long 
enough. 

What could such lovely ladies have to do 

With the old man there, in those ill- 
odorous rags, 

Except to keep the wind-side of him ? 
Lear 

Is flat and quiet, as a decent grave ; 

He does not curse his daughters in the 
least. 

.5^ these his daughters.' Lear is think- 
ing of 

His porridge chiefly . . is it getting cold. 

At Hampstead ? will the ale be served in 
pots ? 

Poor Lear, poor daughters I Bravo,: 
Romney's play ! ' 

A murmur and a movement drew 

around ; 
A naked whisper touched us. Some- 
thing wrong ! 
What's wrong? The black crowd, as an 

overstrained 
Cord, quivered in vibration, and I 

saw . . 
Was that his face I saw? . . his . . 

Romney Leigh's . . 
Which tossed a sudden horror like a 

sponge 
Into all eyes, — while himself .stood white 

upon 
The topmost altar-stair, and tried to 

speak, 
And failed, and lifted higher above his 

head 
A letter, . . as a man who drowns and 

gasps. 



' My brothers, bear with me ! I am 
very weak. 

I meant but only good. Perhaps I 
meant 

Too proudly, — and God snatched the cir- 
cumstance 



AURORA LEIGH. 



3^1 



And changed it therefore. There's no 
marriage— none. 

She leaves me, — she departs, — she dis- 
appears, 
lose her. Yet I never forced lier ' ay,' 

I'o have her ' no ' so cast into my teeth, 
n manner of an accusation, thus. 

My friends, you are dismissed. Go, eat 
and drink 

According to the programme, — and fare- 
well !' 

He ended. Tliere was silence in the 

church ; 

A''e heard a baby sucking in its sleep 
\t the farthest end of the aisle. Then 

spoke a man, 
Now, look to it, coves, that all the beef 

and drink 
Be not filched from us like the other 

fun ; 
?ov beer's spilt easier than a woman's 

: lost ! 

riiis gentry is not honest with the poor ; 
L'hey bring us up, to trick us.' — ' Go it, 

Jim,' 
A woman screamed back, — ' I'm a tender 

soul, 
I never banged a child at two years old 
\nd drew blood from him, but 1 sobbed 

for it 
N'ext moment, — and I've had a plague 

of seven, 
['m tender ; I've no stomach even for 

beef. 
Until I know about the girl that's lost. 
That's killed, mayhap. I did misdoubt, 

at first, 
I'he fine lord meant no good by her or 

us. 
He, maybe, got the upper hand of her 
By holding up a wedding-ring, and 

then . . 
\. choking finger on her throat last 

night, 
\nd just a clever tale to keep us still, 
As she is, poor lost innocent. ' Dis'ap- 

pear ! ' 
^Vho ever disappears except a ghost ? 
\nd who believes a story of a ghost ? 
[ ask you, — would a girl go off, instead 
Jf staying to be married? a fine tale ! 
\ wicked man, I say, a wicked man ! 
For my part I would ratlier starve on 

gin 



Than make my dinner on his beef and 

beer.' — 
At which a cry rose up — ' We'll liave 

our rights. 
We'll have the girl, the girl ! Your la- 
dies there 
Are married safely and smoothly every 

day. 
And she shall not arop through into a 

trap 
Because she's poor and of the people : 

shame ! 
We'll have no tricks played off by gentle- 
folks : 
We'll see her righted.' 

Through the rage and roar 
I heard the broken words which Romney 

flung 
Among the turbulent masses, from the 

ground 
He held still with his masterful pale 

face— 
As huntsmen throw the ration to the 

pack, 
Who, falling on it headlong, dog on dog 
In heaps of fury, rend it, swallow it up 
With yelling hound-jaws, — his indignant- 
words. 
His suppliant words, his most pathetic 

words, 
Whereof I caught the meaning here and 

there 
By his gesture . . torn in morsels, yelled 

across, 
And so devoured. From end to end, 

the church 
Rocked round us like the sea in storm, 

and then 
Broke up like the earth in earthquake. 

Men cried out, 
' Police ' — and women stood and shrieked 

for God, 
Or dropt and swooned; or, like a herd 

of deer, 
(For whom the black woods suddenly 

grow alive. 
Unleashing their wild shadows down the 

wind 
To hunt the aeatures into corners, back 
And forward) madly fled, or blindly fell. 
Trod screeching underneath the feet of 

those 
Who fled and screeched. 

The last sight left to me 
Was Romney's terrible calra face above 



392 



AURORA LEIGH. 



The tumult ! — the last sound was ' Pull 

him down ! 
Strike— kill him!' Stretching my un- 
reasoning arms. 
As men in dreams, who vainly interpose 
'Twixt gods and their undoing, with a 

cry 
I struggled to precipitate myself 
Head-foremost, to the rescue of my soul 
In that white face, . . till some one 

caught me back, 
And sothe world went out, — I felt uo 
more. 

What followed, was told after by Lord 
Howe, 

Who bore me senseless from the strang- 
ling crowd 

In church and street, and then retumed 
alone 

To see the tumult quelled. The men of 
law 

Had fallen as thunder on a roaring fire, 

And made all silent,— while the jieople's 
smoke 

Passed eddying slowly from the emptied 
aisles. 

Here's Marian's letter, which a ragged 

child 
Brought running, just as Romney at the 

porch 
Looked out expectant of the bride. He 

sent 
The letter to me by his friend Lord 

Howe 
Some two hours after, folded in a sheet 
On which his well known hand had left 

a word. 
Here's Marian's letter. 

' Noble friend, dear saint, 
Be patient with me. Never think me 

viie. 
Who might to-morrow morning be your 

wife 
But that I loved you more than such a 

name. 
Farewell, my Romney. Let me write it 

once, — 
My Romney. 

' 'Tis so pretty a coupled word, 
I have no heart to pluck it with a blot. 
We say * my God ' sometimes, upon our 
kuees, 



Who is not therefore vexed : so beai 

with it . . 
And me. I know I'm foolish, Aveak, ancj 

vain ; 
Yet most of all I'm angry with myself 
For losing your last footstep on the stair 
The last time of your coming, — vesteri 

day ! 
The very first time I lost step of yours, . 
(lis sweetness comes the next to whai] 

you speak) 
But yesterday sobs took me by thei 

throat 
And cut me off from music. 

' Mister Leigh) 
You'll set me down as wrong m manj] 

things. 
You've praised me, sir, for truth, — and 

now you'll learn 
I had not courage to be rightly true. 
I once began to tell you how she came. 
The woman . . and you stared upon tho 

floor 
In one of your fixed thoughts . . whicl 

put me out 
For that day. After, some one spokt 

of me. 
So wisely, and of you, so tenderly. 
Persuading me to silence for your sake . 
W^ll, well ! it seems this moment I wan 

wrong 
In keeping back from telling you th 

truth : 
There might be truth betwixt us two, a; 

least. 
If nothing else. And yet 'twas danger 

ous. 

Suppose a real angel came from heaven 
To live with men and women ! lie'd g« 

mad, 
If no considerate hand should tie a blint 
Across his piercing eyes. 'Tis thu 

with you: 
You see us too much in your heavenl' 

light ; 

I always thought so, angel,— and iucleei 
There's danger that you beat yourself i* 

death 
Against the edges of this alien world, 
In some divine and fluttering pity. 

' Ye? 
It would be dreadful for a friti.d o 

yours, 

To see all England thrust you oat o< 
doors 



AURORA LEIGH. 



393 



And mock you from the windows. You 

might say, 
Or tliink (that's worse,) ' There's some 

one in the house 
I miss and love still.' Dreadful ! 

' Very kind, 
I pray you mark, was Lady Waklemar. 
Slie came to see me nine times, rather 

ten — 
So beautiful, she hurts one like the day 
Let suddenly on sick eyes. 

' Most kind of all. 
Your cousin ! — ah, most like you 1 Ere 

you came 
She kissed me mouth to mouth: I felt 

her soul 
Dip through her serious lips in holy 

fire. 
God help me, but it made me arrogant ; 
I almost told her that you would not 

lose 
By taking me to wife : though ever since 
I've pondered much a certain thing she 

asked . . 
'He loves you, Marian?' . . in a sort 

of mild 
Derisive sadnesss . . as a mother asks 
Her babe, ' You'll touch that star, you 

think?' 

' Farewell ! 
I know I never touched it. 

' This is worst : 
Babes grow, and lose the hope of things 

above ; 
A silver threepence sets them leaping 

high— 
But no more stars ! mark that. 

' I've writ all night, 
Yet told you nothing. God, if I could 

die. 
And let this letter break off innocent 
Just here ! But no — for your sake . . 

' Here's the last : 
I never could be happy as your wife, 
I never could be harmless as your friend, 
I never will look more into your face 
Till God says, ' Look ! ' I cliarge j'ou, 

seek me not. 
Nor vex yourself with lamentable 

thoughts 
That perad venture I have come to grief; 
Be sure i'm well, I'm merry, I'm at 

ease. 
But such a long way, long way, long way 



I think you'll find me sooner In my 

grave ; 
And that's my choice, observe. For 

what remains, 
An over-generous friend will care for me 
And keep me happy . . happier . . 

' There's a blot ! 
This ink runs thick . . we light girls 

lightly weep . . 
And keep me happier . . was the thing 

to say. 
Than as your wife I could be ! — O, my 

star. 
My saint, my soul ! for surely you're my 

soul, 
Through whom God touched me ! I ani 

not so lost 
I cannot thank you for the good you did, 
The tears you stopped, which fell dowij 

bitterly, 
Like these— the times you made me weej 

for joy 
At hopmg I should learn to write youi 

notes 
And save the tiring of your eyes, a« 

night ; 
And most for that sweet thrice you kiss 

ed my lips 
And said ' Dear Marian ' 

' 'Twould be hard to read 
This letter, for a reader half as learn'd. 
But you'll be sure to master it in spite 
Of ups and downs. My hand shakes, ) 

am blind, 
Tm poor at writing at the best, — and yel 
I tried to make my ^s the way yoq 

showed. 
Farewell — Christ love you. — Say ' Pooi 

Marian' now.' 

Poor Marian ! — wanton Marian ! — wa» 

it so, 
Or so? For days, her touching, foolish 

lines 
We mused on with conjectural fantasy, 
As if some riddle of a summer-cloud 
On which one tries unlike similitudes 
Of now a spotted Hydra-skin cast off. 
And now a screen of carven ivory 
That shuts the heaven's conventual se- 
crets up 
From mortals over-bold. We sought the 

sense : 
She loved him so perhaps (such word? 
meiin love,) 



AURORA LEIGH. 



That, worked on by some shrewd per- 
fidious tongue, 
(And tlieu 1 thought of I-ady Walde- 

niar) 
She left him, not to hurt him ; or per- 
haps 
She loved one in her class, — or did not 

love, 
But mused upon her wild bad tramping 

life 
Until the free blood fluttered at her 

heart, 
And black bread eaten by the road-side 

hedge 
Seemed sweeter than being put to Rom- 

nev's school 
Of phil'anthropical self-sacrifice, 
Irrevocably.— Girls are girls, beside. 
Thought i, and like a wedding by one 

rule. 
You seldom catch these birds except 

with chaiT: 
They feel it almost an immoral thing 
To go out and be married in broad day. 
Unless some winning special flattery 

should 
Excuse them to themselves for't, . . ' No 

one parts 
Her hair with such a silver line as you. 
One moonbeam from the forehead to the 

crown ! ' 
Or else . . ' You bite your lip in such a 

way. 
It spoils me for the smiling of the rest ' — 
And so on. Then a worthless gaud or 

two 
'I'o keep for love, — a ribbon for the neck. 
Or some glass pin, — they have their 

weight with girls. 

And Romncy sought her many days and 

weeks : 
He sifted all the refuse of the town, 
Exi^lored the trains, inquired among the 

ships, 
And felt the country through from end to 

end ; 
No Marian !- Though 1 hinted what I 

knew, - 
A friend of his had reasons of her own 
For throwing back the match — he would 

not hear : 
'I'he lady had been ailing ever since. 
The shock had harmed lier. Something 

in his tone 



Repressed me ; something in me shamed 

my doubt 
To a sigh repressed too. He went on to 

say 
That, putting questions where his Ma-, 

rian lodged. 
He found she had received for visitors. 
Besides himself and Lady Waldemar 
And, that once, mc — a dubious woman 

dressed 
Beyond us both. The rings upon lier 

hands 
Had dazed the children when she threw 

them jience ; 
' She wore her bonnet as the queen might I 

hers. 
To show the crown,' they said, — * a scar- 
let crown 
Of roses that had never been in bud.* 

When Ronmey told me that,— for now > 

and then 
He came to tell me how the search ad- 
vanced. 
His voice dropped : I bent forward for i 

the rest : 
The woman had been with her, it ap- 
peared. 
At first from week to week, then day by; 

day. 
And last, 'twas sure . . 

1 looked upon the ground 
To escape the anguish of his eyes, and i 

asked 
As low as when you speak to mourners 

new 
Of those they cannot bear yet to call 

dead, 
'If Marian had as much as named to 

him 
A certain Rose, an early friend of hers, 
A ruined creature.* 

' Never.'- Starting up 
He strode from side to side about the | 

room. 
Most like some prisoned lion sprung 

awake. 
Who has felt the desert sting him through 

his dreams. 
' What was I to l.er that she should tell 

me aught ? 
A friend 1 was / a friend? I see al 

clear. 
Such devils would pull angels out of 
heaven, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



395 



Provided ihey could reach them ; 'tis 

their jiride ; 
And ihat's tlie fxlds'twixt soul and body- 

liia?;ue I 
The veriest slave who drops in Cairo's 

street, 
Cries. ' Stand off from me,' to the pass- 

enfjers ; 
While these biotclied souls are eager to 

infect, 
And blow their bad breath in a sister's 

face 
As if they got some ease by it.' 

I broke through. 
* Some natures catch no plagues. I've 

read of babes 
Found whole and sleeping by the spotted 

breast 
Of one a full day dead. I hold it true, 
As I'm a woman and know womanhood. 
That Marian Erie, however lured from 

place, 
Deceived in way, keeps pure in aim and 

heart 
As snow that's drifted from the garden- 
bank 
To the open road.' 

' Twas hard to hear him laugh. 
'The figure's happy. Well — a dozen 

carts 
And Irampers will secure you presently 
A fine white snow-drift. Leave it there, 

your snow ! 
'Twill pass lor soot ere sunset. Pure in 

aim? 
She's pure in aim, I grant you, — like 

myself. 
Who tliought to take the world upon my 

back 
To carry it o'er a chasm of social ill. 
And end by letting slip through impo- 
tence 
A single soul, a child's weight in a soul. 
Straight down tiie pit of hell ! yes, I and 

she 
Have reason to be proud of our yure 

ainis.' 

Then softly, as the last repenting drops 

Of a thunder-shower, he added, ' The 
poor child ; 

Poor Marian ! 'twas a luckless day for 
her. 

When first she chanced on my philan- 
thropy.' 



He drew a chair beside me, and sat* 

down ; 
And I, instinctively, as women use 
Before a sweet friend's grief, — when, in 

his ear. 
They hum the tune of comfort though 

them.selves 
Most ignorant of the special words of 

such. 
And quiet so and fortify his brain 
And give it time and strength for feeling 

out 
To reach the availing sense beyond that 

sound, — 
Went murmuring to him what, if written 

here. 
Would seem not much, yet fetched him 

better help 
Than, peradventure, if it had been more. 

I've known the pregnant thinkers of our 
time, 

And stood by breathless, lianging on 
their lips. 

When some chromatic sequence of fine 
thought 

In learned modulation phrased itself 

To an unconjectured harmony of truth. 

And yet I've been more moved, more 
raised, I say. 

By a simple word , . a broken easy 
thing 

A three-years infant might at need re- 
peat. 

A look, a sigh, a touch upon the palm, 

Which meant less than ' I love you ' . , 
than by ail 

The full-voiced rhetoric of those master- 
mouths. 

' Ah, dear Aurora,' he began at last. 

His pale lips fumbling for a sort of smile, 

' Your i^rinter's devils have not spoilt 
your heart : 

That's well. And who knows but, long 
years ago. 

When you and I talked, you were some- 
what right 

In being so peevish with me? You, at 
least. 

Have ruined no one through your dreams. 
Instead, 

You've helped the facile youth live 
youth's day 

With innocent distraction, still perhaps 



396 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Suggestive of things better than your 
rliymes. 

The little shepherd-maiden, eight years 
old, 

I've seen upon the mountains of Vau- 
cluse. 

Asleep i' the sun, her liead upon lier 
knees, 

The flocks all scattered, — is more lauda- 
ble 

Than any sheep-dog trained imperfectly, 

Who bites the kids through too much 
zeal.' 

' I look 

As if I had slept, thfen ? ' 

He was touched at once 
By something in my face. Indeed 'twas 

sure 
That lie and I, — despite a year or two 
Of younger life on my side, and on his 
The heaping of the years' work on the 

days, 
The tiiree-hour speeches from the mem- 
ber's seat, 
The hot committees in and out of doors. 
The pamphlets, 'Arguments,' 'Collec- 
tive Views,' 
Tossed out as straw before sick houses, 

just 
To show one's sick and so be trod to dirt 
And no more use, — through this world's 

imderground 
The burrowing, groping effort, whence 

the arm 
And heart come torn, — 'twas sure that 

he and I 
Were, after all, imequally fatigued ! 
That he. in his developed manhood, 

stood 
A little sunburnt by the glare of life: 
While I . . it seemed no sun had shone 

on me. 
So many seasons I had missed my 

Springs ; 
My cheeks had pined and perished from 

tlieir orbs. 
And all the youth-blood in them had 

grown white 
As dew on autumn cyclamens : alone 
My eyes and forehead answered for my 

face. 

He said, ' Aurora, you are changed — are 
ill!' 



' Not so, my cousin,^ only not asleep,' 
I answered, smiling gently. ' Let it be. 
You scarcely found the poet of Vauclusef 
As drowsy as the shepherds. What is j 

art 
But life upon the larger scale, the high- 
er, 
When, graduating up in a spiral line 
Of still expanding and ascending gyres, | 
It pushes toward the intense significance J 
Of all things, hungry for the Infinite ? 
Art's life. — and where we live, we suffer ( 
and toil.' 

He seemed to sift me with his painful 1 

eyes. 
' You take it gravely, cousin ; you re- ■ 

fuse 
Your dreamland's right of common, and 1 

green rest. 
You break the mythic turf where danced 1 

the nymphs 
With crooked ploughs of actual life, — let : 

in 
The axes to the legendary woods. 
To pay the head-tax. You are fallen in- 
deed 
On evil days, you poets, if yourselves 
Can {iraise that art of yours no otlier- 

wise ; 
And, if you cannot, . . better take a 

trade 
And be of use : 'twere cheaper for your 

youth.* 

* Of use ! ' I softly echoed, ' there's the 
point 

We sweep about forever in an argu- 
ment ; 

Like swallows which the exasperate, dy- 
ing year 

Sets spinning in black circles, round and 
round. 

Preparing for far flights o'er unknown 
seas. 

And we . . where tend we ? ' 

' Where?' he said, and sigh.ed. 

'The whole creation, from the hour ve 
are bom. 

Perplexes us with questions. Not a 
stone 

But cries behind us. every weary step, 

' Where, where .-• ' I leave stones to reply 
to stones. 

Enough for me and for my fleshly heart 



AURORA LEIGH. 



y)f 



To harken the invocations of my kind. 

When men catclj hold upon my shudder- 
ing nerves 

And shriek, ' What help ? what hope ? 
what bread i' the house ? 

What fire i' the frost? ' There must be 
some response, 

Though mine fail utterly. This social 
Sphinx 

Who sits between the sepulchres and 
stews, 

Makes mock and mow against the crys- 
tal heavens, 

And bullies God, — exacts a word at least 

From each man standing on the side of 
God, 

However paying a sphinx-price for it. 

We pay it also if we hold our peace, 

In pangs and pity. Let me speak and 
die. 

Alas ! you'll say I speak and kill in- 
stead.' 

I pressed in there. ' The best men, do- 
ing their best. 

Know peradventure least of what they 
do: 

Men usefullest i' the world, are simply 
used ; 

The nail that holds the wood, must pierce 
it first, 

And He alone who wields the hammer, 
sees 

The work advanced by the earliest blow. 
Take heart.' 

* Ah, if I could have taken yours ! ' he 
said, 

'But that's past now.' Then rising . . 
' I will take 

At least' your kindness and encourage- 
ment. 

I thank you. Dear, be happy. Sing 
your songs. 

If that's your way I but sometimes slum- 
ber too, 

Nor tire too much with following, out of 
breath, <• 

The rhvmes upon your mountains of De- 
light. 

Reflect, if Art be in truth the higher 
life. 

You need the lower life to stand upon 

In order to reach up unto that higher : 

And none can stand a-tiptoe in the place 

He cannot stand in with two stable f<:et. 



Remember then ! — for Art's sake, hold 
your life.' 

We parted so. I held him in respect. 
I comprehended what he was in heart 
And sacrificial greatness. Ay, but ke 
Supposed me a thing too small to deign 

to know ; 
He blew me, plainly, from the crucible. 
As some intruding, interrupting fly 
Not worth the pains of his analysis 
Absorbed on nobler subjects. Hurt a 

fly I 
He would not for the world ; he's pitiful 
To flies even. 'Sing,' says he, 'and 

teaze me still. 
If that's your way, poor insect.' That's 

your way. 



FIFTH BOOK. 

Aurora Leigh, be humble. Shall I 

hope 
To speak my poems in mysterious tune 
With man and nature, — with the lava- 
lymph 
That trickles from successive galaxies 
Still drop by drop adown the finger of 

God 
In still new worlds?— with summer-days 

in this. 
That scarce dare breathe they are so 

beautiful ? 
With Spring's delicious trouble in the 

ground 
Tormented by the quickened blood of 

roots. 
And softly pricked by golden crocus- 
sheaves 
In token of the harvest-time of flowers? 
With winters and with autumns, — and 

beyond 
With the human heart's large seasons, 

when it hopes 
And fears, joys, grieves, and loves? — 

with all that strain 
Of sexual passion, which devours the 

flesh 
In a sacrament of souls? with mother's 

breasts 
Which, round the new-made creatures 

hanging there. 
Throb luminous and harmonious Ilka 

l^ure spheres ?— 



398 



AURORA LEIGH. 



With multitsdinous life, and finally 
With the great escapings of ecstatic souls. 
Who, in a rush of too long prisoned 

flame, 
Their radiant faces upward, burn away 
This dark of the body, issuing on a 

world 
Beyond our mortal ?— can I speak my 

verse 
,So plainly in tunc to these things and the 

rest. 
That men shall feel it catch them on the 

quick, 
As having the same warrant over them 
To hold and move them if they will or 

no, 
Alike imperious as the primal rhythm 
Of that tlieurgic nature? 1 must fail, 
Who fail at the begiiniing to hold and 

move 
One man, — and he my cousin, and he 

my friend, 
And he born tender, made intelligent. 
Inclined to ponder the precipitous sides 
Of difficult questions ; yet obtuse to me, 
Oi me, incurious t likes me very well, 
And wishes me a paradise of good. 
Good looks, good means, and good di- 
gestion, — ay, 
But otherwise evades me, puts me otf 
With kindness, with a tolerant gentle- 
ness, — 
Too liglit a book for a grave man's read- 
ing ! Go, 
Aurora Leigh : be humble. 

Tliere it is, 
We women are too apt to look to one, 
Which piovej a certain impotence in 

art. 
We strain oui natures at doing something 

great, 
Far less because it's sometliing great to 

do. 
Than haply that we, so, commend our- 
selves 
As being not small, and more apprecia- 
ble 
To some one friend. We must have 

mediators 
Betwixt our highest conscience and the 

judge ; 
Some sweet saint's blood must quicken 

in our palms 
Or all the life in heaven seems slow and 
cold : 



Good only being perceived as the end of 

good, 
And God alone pleased, — that's too poor, 

we think. 
And not enough for us by any means. 
Ay — Romney, I remember, told me once ; 
We miss the abstract, when we compre- j 

liend. 
We miss it most when we aspire, . . and 

fail. 

Yet, so, I will not. — This vile woman's \ 

way I 

Of trailing garments, shall not trip me ^' 

up. t 

I'll have no traffic with the personal 1| 

thought 
In art's pure temple. Must I work in 

vain, 
Without the approbation of a man ? 
It cannot be : it sliall not. Fame itself, ,■ 
That approbation of the general race, 
Presents a poor end, (thougii the arrow 'j 

speed. 
Shot straight with vigorous finger to the 

white!) 
And the highest fame was never reached 11 

except 
By what was aimed above it. Art for q 

art, 
And good for God Himself, the essen- •' 

tial Good 1 
We'll keep our aims sublime, our eyes ;j 

erect, 
Although our woman hands should shake ; 

and fail : 
And if we fail . . But must we? — 

Shall I fail?' 
The Greeks said grandly in tlieir tragic 

phrase, 
' Let no one be called happy till his 

death.' 
To which I add, — Let no one till his 

death 
Be called unhappy. Measure not the 

work 
Until the day's nut atid the labour done ; 
Then bring your gauges. If the day's 

work's scant. 
Why, call it scant ; affect no compro- 
mise ; 
And, in that we have nobly stivcn at 

least, 
Deal with us nobly, women though we 

be. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



399 



And honor U3 with tnith if not with 
praise. 

My ballads prospered ; but tlie ballad's 

race 
Is rapid for a poet who bears weights 
Of thought and golden image. Ho can 

stand 

Like Atlas, in the sonnet,— and support 
ills own heavens pregnant with dynastic 

stars ; 
Bat then he must stand still, nor take a 

step. 

In that descriptive poem called 'The 
Hills,' 

The prospects were too far and indis- 
tinct. 
Tis true my critics said, ' A fine view, 
that I ' 

The public scarcely cared to climb the 
book 

For even the finest ; and the public's 
right, 

A tree's mere firewood, unless human- 
ised ; 

Which well the Greeks knew when they 
stirred its bark 

With close-pressed bosoms of subsiding 
nymphs. 

And inade the forest-rivers garrulous 

With babble of gods. For us, we are 
called to mark 

A still more intimate humanity 

In this inferior nature,— or, ourselves, 

Must fall like dead leaves trodden un- 
derfoot 

By veritable artists. Earth, shut up 

By Adam, like a fakir in a box 

Left too long buried, remained stiff and 
dry, 

A mere dumb corpse, till Christ the Lord 
came down, 

Unlocked the doors, forced open the 
blank eyes, 

And used H'is kingly chrism to straighten 
out ^_ 

The leathery tongue turned back into 
the throat : 

Since when, she lives, remembers, pal- 
pitates 

In every limb, aspires in every breath, 

Embraces infinite relations. Now 

We want no half-gods, Panomph^ean 
Joves, 



Fauns, Naiads, Tritons, Oreads, and 

the rest. 
To take possession of a senseless world 
To unnatural vampyre-uses. See the 

earti). 
The body of our body, the green earth. 
Indubitably human like this flesh 
And these articulated veins through 

which 
Our lieart drives blood ! there's not a 

flower of spring 
That dies ere June, but vaunts itself al- 
lied 
By issue and symbol, by significance 
And correspondence, to that spirit-world 
Outside the limits of our space and 

time. 
Whereto we are bound. Let poets give 

it voice 
With human meanings ; else they miss 

the thought. 
And henceforth step down lower, stand 

con fessed 
Instructed poorly for interpreters. 
Thrown out by an easy cowslip in the 

text. 

Even so my pastoral failed : it was a 

book 
Of surface-pictures — pretty, cold, and 

false 
With literal transcript, — the worse done, 

I think, 
For being not ill-done. Let me set my 

mark 
Against such doings, and do otherwise. 
'Ihis strikes me. — If the public whom 

we know. 
Could catch me at such admissions, I 

should pass 
For being right modest. Yet how proud 

we are. 
In daring to look down upon ourselves ! 

The critics say that epics have died out 
With Agamemnon and the goat-nursed 

gods— 
I'll not believe it. I could never deem 
As Payne Knight did, (the mythic moun- 
taineer 
Who travelled higlier than he was born 

to live. 
And showed sometimes the goitre in hij 
throat 



400 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Discoursing of an image 3een through 

fog.) 
That Homer's heroes measured twelve 

feet high. 
They were but men : — his Helen's hair 

turned gray 
Like any plain Miss Smith's, who ^vears 

a front ; 
And Hector's infant whimpered at a 

plume. 
All actual heroes are essential men, 
And all men possible heroes : every age, 
Heroic in proportions, double-faced, 
Looks backward and before, expects a 

morn 
And claims an epos. 

Ay, but every acre 
Appears to souls who live in 't, (ask 

Carlyle) 
Most unheroic. Ours, for instance, 

ours : 
The thinkers scout it, and the poets 

abound 
Who scorn to touch it with a finger-tip : 
A pewter age,— mixed metal, silver- 
washed ; 
An age of scum, spooned off the richer 

past. 
An age of patches for old gaberdines, 
An age of mere transition, meaning 

nought 
Except that what succeeds must shame 

it quite 
If God please. That's wrong thinking, 

to my mind, 
And wrong thoughts make poor poems. 

Every a^e. 
Through being beheld too close, is ^ill- 
discerned 
By those who have not lived past it. 

We'll suppose 
Mount Athos carved, as Alexander 

schemed, 
To some colossal statue of a man : 
The peasants, gathering brushwood in 

his ear. 
Had guessed as little as the browsing 

goats 
Of form or feature of luunanity 
Up there, — in fact, had travelled five 

miles off 
Or ere the giant image broke on them, 
Fuil human profile, nose and chin dis- 
tinct, 



Mouth, muttering rhythms of silence uji 

the sky. 
And fed at evening with the blood of 

suns : 
Grand torso,— hand that flung perpetual.! 

ly 

The largesse of a silver river down 

To all the country pastures. 'Tis ever 

thus 
\yith times we live in,— evermore toe- 
great 
To be apprehended near. 

But poets should 
Exert a double vision ; should have eyes 
To see near things as compreh.ensively 
As if afar they took their point of sight, , 
And distant things as intimately deep 
As if they touched them. Let us striv« 

for this. 
I do distrust the poet who discerns 
No character or glory in his times, 
And trundles back his soul five hundred 

years. 
Past moat and drawbridge, into a castle-: 

court. 
To sing— oh not of lizard or of toad 
Alive i' the ditch there, — 'twere excusani 

ble; 
But of some black chief, half knight, half I 

sheep-lifter, 
Some beauteous dame, half chattel and(! 

half queen, 
As dead as must be, for the greater part,! 
The poems made on their chivalric 

bones. 
And that's no wonder: death inherits 

death. 

Nay, if there's room for poets in thisi 

world 
A little overgrown, (I think here is) 
Their sole work is to represent the age, 
Their age, not Cliarlemagne's,- this live,; 

throbbing age. 
That brawls, cheats, maddens, calculates, 

aspires, 
And spends more passion, more lieroi- 

heat, 
Betwixt the mirrors of its drawing- 
rooms, 
Than Roland with his knights at! 

Roncesvalles. 
To flinch from modern varnish, coat or 

flounce, 
Cry out for togas and the picturesque. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



401 



3 fatal,— foolish too. King Arthur's 

self 
Vas commonplace to Lady Guenever ; 
Vnd Camelot to minstrels seemed as 

flat, 
\.s Fleet Street to our poets. 

Never flinch, 
3ut still, unscrupulously epic, catch 
Jpon the burning lava of a song 
I'he full-veined, heaving, double-breast- 
ed age : 
That, wlien the next shall come, the men 

of that 
May touch the impress with reverent 

hand, and say 
Behold, —behold, the paps we all have 

sucked 1 
rhis bosom seems to beat still, or ai 

least 
[t sets ours beating. This is living art, 
^Vhich thus presents and thus records 

true life.' 

What form is best for poems ? Let me 
think 

Of forms less, and the external. Trust 
the spirit, 

As sovran nature does, to make the 
form ; 

For otherwise we only imprison spirit 

And not embody. Inward evermore 

To outward, — so in life, and so in art. 

Which still is life. 

Five acts to make a play. 

And why not fifteen? why not ten? or 
seven? 

What matter for the number of the 
leaves. 

Supposing the tree lives and grows? ex- 
act 

The literal unities of time and place, 

When 'tis the essence of passion to ig- 
nore 

Both time and place? Absurd. Keep 
up the fire, 

And leave the generous flames to shape 
themselves. *■ 

'Tis true the stage requires obsequious- 
ness 

To this or that convention ; ' exit ' here 

And ' enter ' there ; the points for clap- 
ping, fixed. 

Like Jacob's white-peeled rods before 
the rams : 



And all the close-curled imagery clipped 
In manner of their fleece at sheanng- 

time. 
Forget to prick the galleries to the heart 
Precisely at the fourth act,— culminate 
Our five pyramidal acts with one act 

more, — 
We're lost so 1 Shakspeare's ghost 

could scarcely plead 
Against our just damnation. Stand 

aside ; 
We'll muse for comfort that, last cen- 
tury, 
On this same tragic stage on which we 

have failed, 
A wigless Hamlet would have failed the 

same. 

And whosoever writes good poetry, 
Looks just to art. He does not write 

for you 
Or me,— for London or for Edinburgh ; 
He will not suffer the best critic known 
To step into his sunshine of free thought 
And self-absorbed conception, and exact 
An inch-long swerving of the holy lines. 
If virtue done for popularity 
Defiles like vice, can art for praise or 

hire 
Still keep its splendour, and remain pure 

art? 
Eschew such serfdom. What the poet 

writes. 
He writes: mankind accepts it if it suits, 
And that's success : if not, the poem's 

passed 
From hand to hand, and yet from hand 

to hand. 
Until the unborn snatch it. crying out 
In pity on their fathers' being so dull, 
And that's success too. 

I will write no plays; 
Because the drama, less sublime in this, 
Makes lower appeals, defends more 

menially. 
Adopts the standard of the public tasle 
To chalk its height on, wears a dog-chain 

round 
Its regal neck, and learns to carry and 

fetch 
The fashions of the day to p'.ease the 

day ; 
Fawns close on pit and boxes, who clap 

hands. 
Commending chiefly its docility 



402 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And humour in stage-tricks ; or else in- 
deed 

Gets hissed at, howled at, stamped at 
like a dog, 

Or worse, we'll say. For dogs, unjustly 
kicked, 

Yell, bite at need; but if your drama- 
tist 

( Being wronged by some five hundred 
nobodies 

Because iheir grosser brains most natu- 
rally 

Misjudge the fineness of his subtle wit) 

Shows teeth an almond's breadth, pro- 
tests the length 

Of a modest phrase, — ' My gentle coun- 
trymen, 

' There's something in it haply of your 
fault,' — 

Wiiy. then, beside five liundred nobod- 
ies. 

He'll have five thousand and five thou- 
sand more 

Against him, — the whole public, — all the 
hoofs 

Of King Saul's father's asses, in full 
drove. 

And obviously deserve it. He appealed 

To tiiese, — and why say more if they 
condemn. 

Than if tliey praise him?— Weep, my 
i'Eschylus, 

But low and far, upon Sicilian shores I 

For since 'twas Athens (so I read the 
myth) 

Who gave commission to that fatal 
weight 

The tortoise, cold and hard, to drop on 
thee 

And crush thee, — better cover thy bald 
head ; 

She'll hear the softest hum of Hyblan 
bee 

Before thy loudest protestation ! Then 
The risk's still worse upon the modern 
stage ; 

T could not, for so little, accept success. 

Nor would I risk so much, in case and 

calm, 
For manifester gains ; let those who 

prize, 
Pursue ihem : / stand off. 

And yet, forbid, 
That any irreverent fancy or conceit 



Should litter in the Drama's throne-roon' 

where 
The rulers of our art, in whose full vein: 
Dynastic glories mingle, sit in strength 
And do ilieir kingly work, — conceive 

command, 
And, from the imagination's crucial heat' 
Catch uji their men and and women al 

a flame 
For action, all alive and forced to prove* 
Their life by living out heart, brain, anc| 

nerve, 
Until mankind makes witness, 'Thesfc, 

be men 
As we are,' and vouchsafes the greetinti 

due 1 

To Imogen and Juliet— sweetest kin 
On art's side. 

'Tis that, honouring to its worth 
The drama, I would fear to keep it dowir^ 
To the level of the footlights. Dies i 

more 
The sacrificial goat, for Bacchus slain, 
His filmed eyes fluttered by the whirlinji 

white 
Of choral vestures, — troubled in hia! 

blood. 
While tragic voices that clanged keen asij 

swords. 
Leapt high together with the altar-flame 
And made the blue air wink. The waxci 

mask. 
Which set the grand still front of Themis' 

son 
Upon the puckered visage of a player; — 
The buskin, which he rose upon anc 

moved. 
As some tall ship first conscious of the 

wind 
Sweeps slowly past the piers ; — the 

mouth-piece, where 
The mere man's voice with ail its breath; 

and breaks 
Went sheathed in brass, and clashed oi 

even lieights 
Its phrased thunders ;--these things are 

no more, 
Which once were. And concluding 

which is clear. 
The growing drama has outgrown sucl: 

toys 
Of simulated stature, face, and sjiecch, 
It also peradventure may outgrow 
The siniulatiou of the i^ainted scene. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



403 



Joaicls. actors, prompters, gaslight, and 

costume ; 
.nd take for a worthier stage the soul it- 
self, 
ts shifting fancies and celestial lights, 
V^ith all its grand orchestral silences 
"o keep the pauses of the rhythmic 
sounds. 

las, I still see something to be done, 
uid what I do falls short of what I see 
hough I waste myself on doing. Long 

green days, 
Vorn bare of grass and smishine,— long 

calm nights, 
"roni which the silken sleeps were fretted 

out, 
>e witness for me, with no amateur's 
rrcverent liaste and busy idleness 
set myself to art ! What then ? what's 

done ? 
Vhat's done, at last ? 

Behold, at last, a book, 
f life-blood's necessary, — which it is, 
By that blue vein athrob on Mahomet's 

brow, 
Lach prophet-poet's book must show 

man's blood !) 
f life-blood's fertilising, I wrung mine 
)n every leaf of this,— unless the drops 
>lid heavily on one side and left it dry. 
That chances often : many a fervid man 
rVrites books as cold and flat as grave- 
yard stones 
Trom which tlie lichen's scraped, and if 

St. Preux 
Sad written his own letters, as he might, 
kVe nad never wept to think of the little 

mole 
Neath Julie's drooping eyelid. Passion 

is 
But something suffered, after all. 

While art 
Sets action on the top of sufTering : 
riie artist's part is both to be and do, 
Transiixing with a special, central po^ver 
riie flat experience of the common man. 
And turning outward, with a sudden 

wrench. 

Half agonv, half ecstasy, the thing 
He feels the inmost : never felt the less 
Because he sings it. Does a torch less 

burn 
J or burning next reflectors of blue steel, 



That 7)^ should be the colder for his 

place 
'Twixt two incessant fires, — his personal 

life's, 
And that intense refraction which burns 

back 
Perpetually against him from the round 
Of crystal conscience he was born into 
If artist-born? O sorrowful great giit 
Conferred on poets, of a twofold life, 
When one life has been found enough 

for pain ! 
We staggering 'neath our burden as mere 

men. 
Being called to stand up straight as 

demi-gods. 
Support the intolerable strain and stress 
Of the universal, and send clearly up 
With voices broken by tlie human sob. 
Our poems to find rhymes among tne 

stars 1 
But soft ! — a ' poet' is a word soon said ; 
A iDook's a thing soon written. Nay, 

indeed. 
The more the poet shall be questionable, 
The more unquestionably comes his 

book. 
And this of mine — well, granting to my- 
self 
Some passion in it, furrowing up the 

flats. 
Mere passion will not prove a volume 

worth 
Its gall and rags even. Bubbles round 

a keel 
Mean nought, excepting that the vessel 

moves. 
There's more than passion goes to make 

a man 
Or book, which is a man too. 

I am sad, 
I wonder if Pygmalion had these 

doubts, 
And, feeling the hard marble first re- 
lent, 
Grow supple to the straining of his arms. 
And tingle through its cold to his burn- 

ing lip. 
Supposed his senses mocked, and that 

the toil 
Of stretching past the known and seen 

to reach 
Tlie archetypal Beauty out of sight. 
Had made his heart beat fast enough for 
two, 



494 



A UK OK A LEIGH. 



And with his own life dazed and blinded 

him ! 
Not so: Pygmalion loved, —and whoso 

loves 
Believes the impossible. 

And I am sad : 
I cannot thoroushly love a work of 

mine. 
Since none seems worthy o^ my thought 

and hope 
More highly mated. lie has shot them 

down. 
My PhiTibiis Apollo, soul within my soul, 
Who judges by the attempted, what's at- 
tained, 
And with the silver arrow from his 

height 
Has struck down all my works before 

my face 
While 1 said nothing. Is there aught 

to say ? 
T call the artist but a greatened man : 
He may be childless also, like a man. 

I laboured on alone. The wind and 

dust 
And sun of the world beat blistering in 

my face ; 
And hope, now for me, now against me, 

dragged 
My spirits onward,— as some fallen 

balloon. 
Which, whether caught by blossoming 

tree or bare, 
Is toin alike. I sometimes touched my 

aim. 
Or seemed,— and generous souls cried 

out, ' Be strong. 
Take courage ; now you're on our level, 

—now ! 
Tiie next step saves you ! ' I was flushed 

with praise. 
But, pausing just a moment to draw 

breath, ' 
I could not choose but murmur to my- 
self 
' Is tiiis all ? all that's done ? and all 

that's gained ? 
If this then be success, 'tis dismaller 
Than any failure.' 

O my God, my God, 
O Supreme Artist, who as sole return 
For all the cosmic wonder of Thy work, 
Demandest of us just a word . . a name, 



' My Father ! — thou hast knowledge, 
only thou.' 

How dreary 'tis for women to sit still 

On winter nights by solitary fnes, 

And hear the nations praising them far | 
off, I 

Too far ! ay, praising our quick sense of t: 
love. 

Our very heart of passionate woman- 
hood. 

Which could not beat so in the verse 
without 

Being present also in the unkissed lips. 

And eyes undried because there's nonet 
to ask 

The reason they grow moist. 

To sit alone, j 
And think for comfort how, that very< 

night, 
.•\ffianced lovers, leaning face to face 
With sweet half-listenings for each other's^ 

breath 
Are reading haply from a page of ours, 
To pause with a thrill, as if their cheek* ( 

had touched, 
When sucij a stanza, level to their mood, l| 
Seems floating their own thoughts out— 

' So I feel 
For thee,' — 'And I, for thee: this poet 

knows 
What everlasting love is! '- how, tliat 

night, 
A father, issuing from the misty roads 
Upon the luminous round of lamp and( 

hearth 
And happy children, having caught up. 

first 
The youngest there luitil it shrink andi 

shriek 
To feel the cold chin prick its dimples 

through 
With winter from the hills, may throw i'l 

the lap 
Of the eldest, (who has learnt to drop 

her lids 
To hide some sweetness newer than last 

year's) 
Our book and cry, . , 'Ah you, you care 

for rhymes ; 
So here be rhymes to jiore cm undeii 

trees, j 

When April comes to let you ! I've beer 

told 
They are not idle as so many are. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



405 



liut set hearts beating pure as well as 

fast : 
'Tis yours, the book ; I'll write your 

name in it, 
That so you may not lose, however lost 
In poet's lore and charming reverie. 
The thought of how your father thought 

of yoii 
In riding from the town.' 

To have our books 

Appraised by love, associated with love. 

While we sit loveless ! is it hard, you 
think ? 

At least 'tis mournful. Fame, indeed, 
'twas said, 

Means simply love. It was a man said 
that. 

And then, there's love and love : the 
love of all 

To risk in turn a woman's paradox,) 

Is but a small thing to the love of one. 

ifou bid a hungry child be satisfied 

W\\h a heritage of many corn-fields : 
nay, 

He says he's hungry, — he would rather 
have 

That little barley-cake you keep from 
him 

^Vhlle reckoning up his harvests. So 
with us ; 

Here, Romney, too, we fail to general- 
ise !) 

kVe're hungry. 

Hungry ! but it's pitiful 

To wail like unweaned babes and suck 
our thumbs 

Recause we're hungry. Who, in all this 
world. 

Wherein we are haply set to pray and 
fast, 

\nd learn what good is by its opposite) 

Has never hungered ? Woe to liim who 
has found 

riie meal enough: if Ugolino's full, 

His teeth have crunched some foul un- 
natural thing: < 

For here satiety proves penury 

More utterly irremediable. And since 

We needs must hunger, — better, for 
man's love 

Than God's truth 1 better, for compan- 
ions sweet, 

Than great convictions 1 let us bear our 
weiiihts, 



Preferring dreary hearths to desert 

souls. 
Well, well, they say we're envious, we 

who rhyme ; 
But I, because I am a woman perhaps, 
And so rhyme ill, am ill at envying. 
I never envied Graham his breadth of 

style. 
Which gives you, with a random s.mutcli 

or two, 
(Near-sighted critics analyse to smutch) 
Such delicate perspectives of full life ; 
Nor Belmore, for the unity of aim 
To which he cuts his cedarn poems, fine 
As sketchers do their pencils; nor Mark 

Gage, 
For that caressnig colour and trancing 

tone 
Whereby you're swept away and melted 

in 
The sensual element, which with a back 

wave 
Restores you to the level of pure souls 
And leaves you with Plotinus. None 

of these, 
For native gifts or popular applause, 
I've envied; but for this, — that when by 

chance 
Says some one, — ' There goes Belmore, 

a great man ! 
He leaves clean work behind him, and 

requires 
No sweeper up of the chips,' . . a girl 

I know. 
Who answers nothing, save with her 

brown eyes, 
Smiles unaware as if a guardian saint 
Smiled in her:— for this, too,— that 

Gage comes home 
And lays his last book's prodigal review 
Upon his mother's knees, where, years 

ago. 
He laid his childish spelling-book and 

learned 
To chirp and peck the letters from her 

mouth, 
As young birds must. ' Well done,' she 

murmured then. 
She will nut say it now more wonder- 
ing! y ; 
And yet the last ' Well done,' will touch 

him more. 
As catching up to-day and yesterday 
1 n a perfect cord of love ; and so, Mark 

Gage, 



4o6 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I envy you your mother ! — and you, Gra- | 

ham, 
Because you have a wife who loves you 

so, 
She half forgets, at moments, to be 

proud 
Of being Graham's w^ife, until a friend 

observes, 
' The boy here, has his father's massive 

brow, 
Done small in wax . . if we push back 

the curls.' 

Who loves >Me ? Dearest father, — moth- 
er sweet, — 
I speak the names out sometimes by 

myself, 
And make the silence shiver : they 

sound strange, 
As Hindostanee to an Ind-born man 
Accustomed many years lo English 

speech ; 
Or lovely poet-words grown obsolete. 
Which will not leave off singing. Up 

in heaven 
I have my father,— with my mother's 

face 
Beside iiira in a blotch of heavenly 

light; 
No more for earth's familiar household 

use, 
No more ! The best verse written by 

this hand, 
Can never reach them where they sit, to 

seem 
Well-done to them. Death quite un- 

fellows us, 
Sets dreadful odds betwixt the live and 

dead. 
And makes us part as those at Babel did 
Through sudden ignorance of a common 

tongue. 
A living Caesar would not dare to play 
At bovvls with such as my dead father 



And yet this may be less so than ap- 
pears. 

This change and separation. Sparrows 
five 

For just two farthings, and God cares 
for each. 

If God is not too great for little cares, 

Is any creature, because gone to God? 



I ve seen some men, veracious, nowi.se 
mad. 

Who have thought or dreamed, de- 
clared and testified, 

They heard the Dead a ticking like a 
clock 

Which strikes the hours of the eterni- 
ties. 

Beside them, with their natural ears, and 
knoAii 

That human spirits feel the human way. 

And hate the unreasoning awe which 
waves them off 

From possible communion. It may be. 

At least, earth separates as well as 

heaven. 
For instance, I have not seen Romneyi.'' 

Leigh 
Full eighteen months . . add six. you 

get two years. 
They say he's very busy with good 

works, — 
Has parted Leigli Hall into almshouses. 
He made an almshouse of his heart ona 

day. 
Which ever since is loose upon the latch 
For those who pull the string.— I never 

did. 

It always makes me sad to go abroad ; 

And now I'm sadder that I went to- 
night 

Among the lights and talkers at Lord 
Howe's. 

His wife is gracious, with her glossy 
braids, 

And even voice, and gorgeous eyeballs, 
calm 

As her other jewels. If she's somewhat 
cold. 

Who wonders, when her blood has stood 
so long 

In the ducal reservoir she calls her line 

By no means arrogantly? she's i.ot 
l^roud : 

Not prouder than the swan is of llie 
lake 

He has always swum in ; — 'tis her ele- 
ment. 

And so she takes it with a natural grace, 

Ignoring tadpoles. She just knows per- 
haps 

There ara who travel without outriders. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



407 



hich isn't her fault. Ah, to watch 

her face, 
hen good Lord Howe expounds his 

theories 
f social justice and equality — 
is curious, what a tender, tolerant 

bend 
tx neck take$: for she loves him, 

likes his talk, 
)uch clever talk— that dear, odd Alger- 
non ! ' 

listens on, exactl)' as if he talked 
)me Scandinavian myth of hemures, 
00 pretty to dispute, and too absurd. 

le's gracious to me as her husband's 
friend, 

nd would be gracious, were I not a 
Leigh, 

eing used to smile just so, without her 
eyes, 

u Joseph Strangways, the Leeds mes- 
merist, 

nd Delia Dobbs, the lecturer from ' the 
States' 

pon tiie ' Woman's question.' Then, 

for him, 
like liira , . he's my friend. And all 
the rooms 

/"ere full of crinkling silks that swept 
about 

he fine dust of most subtle courtesies. 

/^hat then? — why then, we come home 
to be sad. 

[ow lovely One I love not looked to- 
night ! 

he's very pretty, Lady Waldemar. 

ter maid must use both hands to twist 
that coil 

'f tresses, then be careful lest the rich 

ronze rounds should slip : — she missed, 
though, a gray liair, 

. single one, — I saw It ; otherwise 

'he woman looked immortal. How 
they told, 

'hose alabaster shoulders and bare 
breasts, ' 

'n which the pearls, drowned out of 
sight in milk, 

/ere lost, excepting for the ruby-clasp ! 

"hey split the amaranth velvet-boddice 
down 

'o the waist or nearly, with the auda- 
cious press 



Of full-breathed beauty. If the heart 
within 

Were half as white ! — but, If It were, 
perhaps 

The breasts were closer covered, and the 
sight 

Less aspectable, by half, too. 

I heard 

The young man with the German stu- 
dent's look— 

A sharp face, like a knife in a cleft stick. 

Which shot up straight against the part- 
ing line 

So equally dividing the lone hair, — 

Say softly to his neighbor, (thirty-five 

And mediaeval) ' Look that way, Sir 
Blaise. 

She's Lady Waldemar — to the left,— in 
red — 

Whom Romney Leigh, our ablest man 
just now. 

Is soon about to marry.' 

Then replied 

Sir Blaise Delorme, with quiet, priestlike 
voice, 

Too used to syllable damnations round 

To make a natural emphasis worth 
while : 

' Is Leigh your ablest man ? the same, I 
think, 

Once jilted by a recreant pretty maid 

Adopted from the people? Now, in 
change, 

He seems to have plucked a flower from 
the other side 

Of the social hedge.' 

'A flower, a flower,' exclaimed 

My German student,— his own eyes full- 
blown 

Bent on her. He was twenty, certainly. 

Sir Blaise resumed with gentle arro- 
gance. 

As if he had dropped his alms into a hat 

And gained the right to counsel, — ' My 
young friend, 

I doubt your ablest man's ability 

To get the least good or help meet for 
him. 

For pagan phalanstery' or Christian 
home. 

From such a flowery creature.' 

' Beautiful ! ' 

My student murmured, rapt, — ' Mark 
how she stirs ! 



4oS 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Just waves her head, as if a flower in- 
deed, 

Touched far off by the vain breath of 
our talk.' 

At which that bilious Grimwald, (he 

who writes 
For the Renovator) who had seemed 

absorbed 
Upon the table-book of autographs, 
(I dare say mentally he crunched the 

bones 
Of all those writers, wishing them alive 
To feel his tooth in earnest) turned short 

round 
With low carnivorous laugh, — ' a flower, 

of course ! 
She neither sews nor spins, — and takes 

no thought 
Of her garments . . falling off.' 

The student flinched. 
Sir Blaise, the same ; then both, draw- 
ing back their chairs 
As if they spied black-beetles on the 

floor. 
Pursued their talk, without a word being 

thrown 
To the critic. 

Good Sir Blaise's brow is high 
And noticeably narrow: a strong wind, 
You fancy, might unroof him suddenly, 
And blovv that great top attic off his 

head 
So piled with feudal relics. You admire 
His nose in profile, though you miss his 

chin ; 
But, though you miss his chin, you sel- 
dom miss 
His ebon cross worn innermostly, 

(carved 
For penance by a saintly Styrian monk 
Whose flesh was too much with him,) 

slipping through 
Some unaware unbuttoned casualty 
Of the under-waistcoat. With an absent 

air 
Sir Blaise sate fingering it and speaking 

low, 
While I, upon the sofa, heard it all. 

' My dear young friend, if we could bear 

our eyes 
Like blessedest St. Lucy, on a plate. 
They would not trick us into choosing 

wives, 



As doublets, by the colour. Otherwise 
Our fathers chose, — and therefore, when i 

they had hung 
Their household keys about a lady's > 

waist. 
The sense of duty gave her dignity : 
She kept her bosom holy to her babes J ; 
And, if a moralist reproved her dress, 
'Twas, ' Too much starch ! ' — and not, 

• Too little lawn ! ' * 

' Now, psliaw ! ' returned the other in a 

heat, 
A little fretted by being called * young ; 

friend,' 
Or so I took it,— ' for St. Lucy's sake. 
If she's the saint to swear by, let us< 

leave 
Our fathers, — plagued enough abou.t|l 

our sons ! ' 
(He stroked liis beardless chin) 'yes.J 

plagued, sir, plagued : 
The future generations lie on us , 

As heavy as the nightmare of a seer; /, 
Our meat and drink grow painful proph-V' 
ecy: ' 

I ask you, — have we leisure, if we liked,!] 
To hollow out our weary hands to keep j 
Your intermittent rushlight of lie past | 
From draughts in lobbies? Prejiidicef 
of sex I 

And marriage-law . . the socket drops ? 

them through 
While we two speak, — however may\ 

protest 
Some over-delicate nostwls, like youn 

own, 
'Gainst odours thence arising.' 

' You are young,', 
Sir Blaise objected. 

' If I am,' he said 
With fire, — 'though somewhat less sc 

than I seem. 
The young run on before, and see the 

thing 
That's coming. Reverence for the young, 

I cry. 
In that new church for which the world's 

near ripe, 
You'll have the younger in the Elder'; 

chair. 
Presiding with his ivory front of hope 
O'er foreheads clawed by cruel carrioil 

birds 
Of life's experience.' 



AURORA LEIGH. 



409 



' Pray your blessing, sir,' 
Sir Blaise replied good-humouredly, — ' I 

plucked 

X. silver hair this morning from my beard, 
»Vliicli left me your inferior. Would 1 

were 
eighteen and worthy to admonish you ! 
f young men of your order run before 
To see such sights as sexual prejudice 
Vud marriage-law dissolved, — in plainer 

words, 

^ general concubinage expressed 
u a universal pruriency, — the thing 
s scarce worth running fast for, and 

you'd gain 
5y loitering with your elders.' 

' Ah,' he said. 
Who, getting to the top of Pisgah-hill, 
^an talk with one at bottom of tlie view, 
^o make it comprehensible ? Why, 

Leigh 
limself, although our ablest man, I 

said, 
s scarce advanced to see as far as this, 
Vhich some are : he takes up imper- 
fectly 
he social question — by one handle — 

leaves 
7he rest to trail. A Christian socialist, 
s Romney Leigh, you understand.' 

'Not I. 
disbelieve in Christian-pagans, much 
U you in women-fishes. If we mix 
'wo colours, we lose both, and make a 

tiiird 
distinct from either. Mark you ! to 

mistake 

^ colour is the sign of a sick brain, 
V.nd mine, I thank the saints, is clear 

and cool : 
V neutral tint is here impossible. 
L'he church, — and by the church, I mean 

of course 

The catholic, apostolic, mother-church, — 
)ravvs lines as plain and straight as her 

own wall ; , 

nside of which, are Christians, ob- 
viously, 
^nd outside . . dogs.' 

' We thank you. Well I know 
['he ancient mother-church would fain 

still bite, 
or all her toothless gums, — as Leigh 

himself 



Would fain be a Christian still, for all 

his wit ; 
Pass that ; you two may settle it, for me. 
You're slow in England. In a montii I 

learnt 
At Gottiugen enough philosophy 
'l"o stock your English schools for fifty 

years ; 
Pass that, too. Here alone, I stop you 

short, 
— Supposing a true man ]il;e Leigh could 

stand 
Unequal in the stature of his life 
To the height of his opinions. Choose 

a wife 
Because of a smooth skin ? — not he, not 

he ! 
He'd rail at Venus' self for creaking 

shoes. 
Unless she walked his way of rigiileous- 

ness ; 
And if he takes a Venus Meretrix, 
(No imputation on the lady there) 
Be sure that, by some sleight of Chris- 
tian art. 
He has metamoTphosed and converted 

her 
To a Blessed Virgin.' 

' Soft ! ' Sir Blaise drew breath 
As if it hurt him, — ' Soft ! no blasphemy, 
I pray you ! ' 

' The first Christians did the thing: 
Why not the last? ' asked he of Gottiu- 
gen, 
With just that shade of sneering on the 

lip. 
Compensates for the lagging of the 

beard,— 
' And so the case is. If that fairest fai^" 
Is talked of as the future wife of Leigh, 
She's talked of too. at least as certainly, 
As Leigh's disciple. You may find her 

name 
On all his missions and commissions, 

schools. 
Asylums, hospitals,— he had her down. 
With other ladies whom her starry lead 
Persuaded from their spiieres, to his 

country-place 
In Shropsliire, to the famed phalanstery 
At Leigh Hall, christianised from Four- 
ier's own, 
(In which he has planted out his sapling 

stocks 
Of knowledge into social nurseries) 



410 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And there, 'hey say, she has tarried half 
a week, 

And milked the cows, and churned, and 
piesbed the curd. 

And said ' my sister ' to the lowest drab 

Of ail tlie assembled castaways ; such 
girls ! 

Ay, sided with them at the washing- 
tub— 

Conceive, Sir Blaise, those naked perfect 
arms, 

Round glittering arms, plunged elbow- 
deep in suds, 

Like wild swans hid in lilies all a-shake.' 

Lord Howe came up. * What, talking 

jioetry 
So near the image of the unfavoring 

Muse ? 
That's you. Miss Leigh: I've watched 

you half an liour. 
Precisely as 1 watched the statue called 
A Pallas in the Vatican ;— you mind 
The face, Sir Blaise?— intensely calm and 

sad. 
As wisdom cut it off from fellowship,— 
But that spoke louder. Not a word 

from you ! 
And these two gentlemen were bold, I 

marked, 
And unabashed by evtn your silence.' 

' Ah,' 
Said L ' my dear Lord Howe, you shall 

not speak 
To a printing woman who has lost her 

place, 
(The sweet safe corner of the household 

fire 
Behind the heads of children) compli- 
ments 
As if she were a woman. We who have 

dipt 
The curls before our eyes, may see at 

least 
As plain as men do : speak out, man to 

man ; 
No compliments, beseech you ' 

' Friend to friend. 
Let that be. We are sad to-night, I 

saw, 
(—Good night. Sir Blaise ! Ah, Smith 

— he has slipped away) 
I saw you across the room, and stayed, 

Miss Leigh, 
To keep a crowd of lion-hunters off, 



With faces toward your jungle. There 

were three ; 
A spacious lady, five feet ten and fat. 
Who has the devil in her (and there's 

room) 
For walking to and fro upon the earth. 
From Chippewa to China; she requires 
Your autograph upon a tinted leaf 
'Twixt Queen Pomare's and Emperor 

Soulouque's : 
Pray give it ; she has energies, though 

fat: 
For me, I'd rather see a rick on fire 
Than such a woman angry. Then a 

youth 
Fresh from the backwoods, green as the 

underboughs. 
Asks modestly. Miss Leigh, to kiss your 

shoe. 
And adds, he has an epic in twelve 

parts, 
Which when you've read, you'll do it for 

liis boot, — 
All which 1 saved you, and absorb next 

week 
Both manuscript and man,— because a 

lord 
Is still more potent than a poetess 
With any extreme republican. Ah, ah. 
You smile at last, then.' 

' Thank you.' 

' Leave the smile. 
I'll lose the thanks for't,— ay, and throw 

you in 
My transatlantic girl, with golden eyes. 
That draw you to her splendid wliite- 

ness as 
The i^istil of a water-lily draws, 
Adust with gold. Those girls across the 

sea 
Are tyrannously pretty,— and I swore 
(She seemed to ine an innocent, frank 

girl) 
To bring her to you for a woman's kiss. 
Not now, but on some other day or 

week : 
— We'll call it perjury ; I give her up,' 

' No, bring her.' 

' Now,' said he, * you make it hard j 
To touch such goodness with a girmy 

palm. 
I thought to tease you well, and fret you 

cross, 



nd steel myself, when rightly vexed 

with you, 
or telling you a thing to tease you more.' 

3f Romney?' 

' No, no ; nothing worse,' he cried, 
)f Romney Leigh than what is buzzed 

about, — 
hat he is taken in an eye-trap too, 
ke many half as wise. The thing I 

mean 
efers to you, not him.' 

' Refers to me.' 
e echoed,—' Me I You sound it like 

a stone 
ropped down a dry well very listlessly 
' one who never thinks about the toad 
ive at the bottom. Presently perhaps 
)u'll sound your ' me ' more proudly — 

till I shrink.' 

iOrd Howe's the toad, then, in this 
question ? ' 

' Brief. 

e'll take it graver. Give me sofa- 
room, 

id quiet hearing. You know Eglin- 
ton, 

hn Eglinton, of Eglinton in Kent ? ' 

s he the toad? — he's rather like the 

snail ; 
lown chiefly for the house upon his 

back : 
vide the man and house —you kill the 

man ; 
lat's Eglinton of Eglinton, Lord 

Howe.' 

; answered grave. ' A reputable man, 

I excellent landlord of the olden 
stamp, 

somewhat slack in new philanthro- 
pies; 

ho keeps his birthdays with a tenants' 
dance, 

hard upon them when they miss t^ie 
church 

hold their children back from cate- 
chism, 

t not ungentle when the aged poor 

:k sticks at hedge-sides: nay, I've 
heard him say, 

he old dame has a twinge because 
she stoops : 



AURORA LEIGH. ^xt 

That's punishment enough far felony.' ' 



' O lender-hearted landlord i May I 

tak? 
My long lease with him, when tho time 

arrives 
For gathering winter faggots ! ' 

' He likes art. 
Buys books and pictures . . of a certain 

kind ; 
Neglects no patent duty ; a good son '. . . 

' To a most obedient mother. Born to 
wear 

His father's shoes, she wears her hus- 
band's too: 

Indeed I've heard it's touching. Dear 
Lord Howe, 

You shall not praise me so against your 
heart, 

When I'm at worst for praise and fag- 
gots.' 

'Be 

Less bitter with me, for . . in short,' he 
said, 

' I have a letter, which he urged me so 

To bring you . . I could scarcely choose 
but yield ; 

Insisting that a new love passing through 

The hand of an old friendship, caught 
from it 

Some reconciling odour. ' 

' Love, you say ? 

My lord, I cannot love. I only find 

The rhyme for love, — and that's not love, 
my lord. 

Take back your letter.' 

' Pause : you'll read it first ? ' 

' I will not read it : it is stereotyped ; 
The same he wrote to, — anybody's 

name, 
Anne Blythe the actress, when she died 

so true, 
A duchess fainted in a private box : 
Pauline the dancer, after the ,^veat f>as 
In which her little feet winked over- 
head 
Like other fireflies, and amazed the pit : 
Or Baldinacci, when her F in alt 
Had touched the silver tops of heaven 

itself 
With such a pungent spirit-dart, the 
Queen 



412 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Laid softly, each to each, her white- 
gloved palms, 
And sighed for joy : or else (I thank your 

friend) 
Aurora Leigh,— when some indifferent 

rhymes. 
Like those the boys sang round the holy 

ox 
On Memphis-highway, chance perhaps 

to set 
Our Apis-public lowing. Oh, he wants, 
Instead of any worthy wife at home, 
A star ujwn his stage of Eglinton ! 
Advise liim that he is not overshrewd 
In being so little modest : a dropped 

star 
I\Iakes bitter waters, says a book I've 

read,— 
And there's his unread letter.' 

' My dear friend,' 
Lord Howe began . . 

In haste I tore the phrase. 
' You mean your friend of Eglinton, or 

me ? ' 

' I me.-in you, you,' he answered with 
some fire. 

' A happy life means prudent compro- 
mise : 

The tare runs through the farmer's gar- 
nered sheaves : 

Rut though the gleaner's apron holds 
pure wheat. 

We count her poorer. Tare with wheat, 
we crv, 

And good with drawbacks. You, you 
love your art. 

And. certain of vocation, set your soul 

On utterance. Only, . . in this world 
we have made, 

(Thev say God made it first, but if He 
did 

'Twas so long since, . . and, since, we 
have spoiled it so. 

He scarce would know it, if He looked 
this way, 

From hells we preach of, with the flames 
blown out,) 

In this bad, twisted, topsy-turvy world. 

Where all the heaviest wrongs get up- 
permost, — 

111 this uneven, unfostering England 

here. 
Where lcdi;er-strokcs and sword-slrokcs 
count indeed, 



But soul-strokes merely tell upon thr 

flesh 
They strike from, — it is hard to stanc 

tor art, 
Unless some golden tripod from the sec 
Be fished up, by Apollo's divine chance 
To throne such feet as yours, my proph 

etess. 
At Delphi. Think,— -the god come: 

down as fierce 
As twenty bloodhounds ! shakes you 

strangles you. 
Until the oracular shriek shall ooze it 

froth 1 
At best 'tis not all ease,— at worst too 

hard : 

A place to stand on is a 'vantage gainedv 
And here's your tripod. To be plain 

dear friend, 
You're poor, except in what you richh 

give ; 
You labour for your own bread painful- 
ly, 
Or ere you pour our wine. For art's 

sake, pause.' 

I answered slow, — as some wayfarinf' 

man. 
Who feels himself at night too far from; 

home. 
Makes steadfast face against the bitto? 

wind. 
' Is art so less a thing than virtue is. 
That artists first must cater for theiil 

ease , 

Or ever they make issue past thcnii| 

selves 
To generous use? alas, and is it so. 
That we, who would be soinewhat cleam 

must sweep 
Our ways as well as walk them, and 

friend 
Confirm us nobly, — ' Leave results t<i 

God, 
But you, be clean?' What! ' pruden: 

compromise 
Makes acceptable life,' you say, instead 
You. you. Lord Howe? — in things )n 

different, well. 
For itistance, compromise the wheate: 

bread 
For rye, the meat for lentils, silk fo 

serge. 
And sleep on down, if needs, for slee 

on straw ; 



AUKOKA LKKilU 



*,n 



But there, end compromise I will not 

bate 
One artist-dream on straw or down, my 

lord, 
Nor pincli my liberal soul, though I be 

jjoor, 
Nor cease to love high, though I live 

thus low,' 

So speaking, with less anper in my voice 
'I'han sorrow, I rose quickly to depart ; 
While he, thrown back upon the noble 

sbame 
Of such high-stumbling natures, mur- 
mured words, 
The right words after wrong ones. Ah, 

the man 
Is worthy, but so given to entertain 
Impossible plans of superhuman life, — 
He sets his virtues on so raised a shelf, 
To keep them at the grand milleiniial 

height, 
He has to mount a stool to ^et at them ; 
And meantime, lives on quite the com- 
mon way. 
With everybody's morals. 

As we passed. 
Lord Howe insisting tiiat his friendly 

arm 
Should oar me across the sparkling 

brawling stream 
Which swept from room to room, we fell 

at once 
On Lady Waldemar. ' Miss Leigh,' she 

said. 
And gave me such a smile, so cold and 

bright, 
As if slie tried it in a 'tiring glass 
And liked it ; ' all to-night I've strained 

at you. 
As babes at banbles held up out of reach 
Ly spiteful nurses, (' Never snatch,' 

they say,) 
And there you sate, most perfectly shut 

in 
By good Sir Blaise and clever Mister 

Smith, ^ 

And then our dear Lord Howe ! at last 

indeed 
I almost snatched. I have a world to 

speak 
About your cousin's place in Shropshire, 

where 
I've been to see his work . . our work, — 

you heard 



I went? . . and of n letter yesterday, 

In which, if I should read a page or 
two, 

You might feel interest, though you're 
locked of course 

In literary toil. — You'll like to hear 

Your last book lies at the phalanstery, 

As judged innocuous for the elder girls 

And yomiger women who still care for 
books. 

We all must read, you see, before we 
live : 

But slowly the ineffable light comes up. 

And, as it deepens, drowns the written 
word, — 

So said your cousin, while we stood and 
felt 

A sunset from his favourite beech-tree 
seat : 

He might have been a poet if he would, 

But then he saw the higher thing at once 

And climbed to it. I think he looks well 
now. 

Has quite got over that unfortunate , . 

Ah, ah . . I know it moved you. Ten- 
der-heart ! 

You took a liking to the wretched girl. 

Perhaps you thought the marriage suita- 
ble, 

Who knows? a poet hankers for ro- 
mance. 

And so on. As for Romney Leigh, 'tis 
sure 

He never loved her, — never. By the 
way. 

You have not heard o^ her? . . quite 
out of sight. 

And out of saving ? lost in every sense ? ' 

She might have gone on talking half-an 

hour, 
And I stood still, and cold, and pale, I 

think. 
As a garden-statue a child pelts with 

snow 
For pretty pastime. Every now and 

then 
I put in 'yes' or 'no,' I scarce Icnew 

why; 
The bimd man walks wherever the dog 

pulls. 
And so I answered. Till Lord Howe 

bioke in : 
' What penance takes the wretch who in- 
terrupts 



4H 



AURORA LEIGH. 



The talk of charming women ? I, at 

last, 
Must brave it. Pardon, Lady Walde- 

mar ! 
The lady on my arm is tired, imwell, 
And loyally I've promised she shall say 
Nor harder word this evening, than . . 

goodnight ; 
The reft her face speaks for her.' — Then 

we went 

And I breathe large at home. I drop 

my cloak, 
Unclasp my girdle, loose the band that 

ties 
My hair . . now could I but unloose my 

soul 1 
We are sepulchered alive in this close 

world, 
And want more room. 

'Jlie charming woman there— 
This reckoning up and writing down her 

talk 
Affects me singularly. How she talked 
To pain me ! woman's spite ! — You wear 

steel-mail ; 
A woman lakes a housewife from her 

breast, 
And plucks the delicatest needle out 
As 'twere a rose, and pricks you care- 
fully 
'Neath nails, 'neath eyelids, in your nos- 
trils, —say, 
A beast would roar so tortured,— but a 

man, 
A human creature, must not, shall not 

flinch, 
No, not for shame. 

What vexes after all. 
Is just that such as she, with such as I, 
Knows how to vex. Sweet heaven, she 

takes me up 
As if she had fingered me and dog-eared 

me 
And spelled me by the fireside half a 

life! 
She knows mv turns, my feeble points. 

—What then? 
The knowledge of a thing implies ti;e 

thing; 
Of course, she found that in nie, she saw 

Hint, 
Her ]->encil underscored (Jiis for a f.iult, 
And I, still ignorant. Sluit the book up 

—close ! 



And crush that beetle in the leaves. 

O heart, 
At last we shall grow liard too, like the 

rest. 
And call it self defence because we are 

soft. 

And after all, now, . . why should I be 

pained 
That Romney Leigh, my cousin, should 

espouse 
Tliis Lady Waldemar? And, say, she 

held 
Her newly-blossomed gladness in my 

face, . . 
'Twas natural surely, if not generous, 
Considering how, when winter held her 

fast, 
I helped the frost with mine, and pained 

her more 
Than she pains me. Pains me ! — but 

wherefore pained? 
'Tis clear my cousin Komney wants a 

wife, — 
So, good ! — The man's need of the 

woman, here. 
Is greater than the woman's of the man, 
And easier served ; for where the man 

discerns 
A sex, (ah, ah, the man can generalise, 
Said he) we see but one, ideally 
And really : where we yearn to lose our- 
selves 
And melt like white pearls in another's 

wine. 
He seeks to double himself by what he 

love.s. 
And make his drink more costly by our 

pearls. 
At board, at bed, at work and holiday, 
It is not good for man to be alone. 
And that's his way of thinking, first ?,nd 

last ; 
And thus my cousin Romney wants a 

wife. 

But then my cousin sets his dignity 
On personal virtue. If he understands 
By love, like others, self-aggrandise- 
ment. 
It is that he may verily be great 
By doing rightly and kindly. Once he 

thought. 
For charitable ends set duly forth 



AURORA LEIGH. 



In heaven's white judgment-book, to 
marry . . ah, 

We'll call her name Aurora Leigh, al- 
though 

She's changed since then ! — and once, 
for social ends. 

Poor Marian Erie, my sister Marian 
Erie, 

My woodland sister, sweet Maid Marian, 

Whose memory moans on in me like the 
wind 

Tiirough ill-shut casements, making me 
more sad 

Than ever I find reasons for. Alas, 

Poor pretty plaintive face, embodied 



ghost, 
He finds it 



easy then, to clap thee off 
From pulling at his sleeve and book and 

pen,— 
He locks thee out at night into the cold, 
Away from butting with thy horny eyes 
Against his crystal dreams, — that now 

he's strong 
To love anew? that Lady Waldemar 
Succeeds my Marian ? 

After all, why not ? 
He loved not Marian, more than once 

he loved 
Aurora. If he loves at last that Third, 
Albeit she prove as slippery as spilt oil 
On marble floors, I will not augur him 
111 luck for that. Good love, howe'er 

ill-placed, 
Is better for a man's soul in the end. 
Than if he loved ill what deserves love 

well. 
A pagan, kissing for a step of Pan 
The wild-goat's hoof-print on the loamy 

down, 
Exceeds our modern thinker who turns 

back 
The strata . . granite, limestone, coal 

and clay, 
Concluding coldly with, ' Here's law 1 

Where's God ? ' 

And then at worse, — if Romney loves 

her not, — 
At worst, — if he's incapable of love, 
Which may be — then indeed, for such a 

man 
Incapable of love, she's good enough ; 
For she, at worst too, is a woman still 



And loves him . . as the sort of woman 
can. 

My loose long hair began to burn and 

creep. 
Alive to the very ends, about my knees : 
I swept it backward as the wind sweeps 

flame. 
With the passion of my hands. Ah, 

Romney laughed 
One day . . (how full the memories come 

upl) 
' — Your Florence fire-flies live on in 

your hair,' 
He said, ' It gleams so.' Well, I wrung 

them out. 
My fire-flies ; made a knot as hard as 

life 
Of those loose, soft, impracticable curls. 
And then sat down and thought. . 

' She shall not think 
Her thoughts of me,' — and drew my 

desk and wrote. 

'Dear Lady Waldemar, I could not 

speak 
With people round me, nor can sleep to- 
night 
And not speak, after the great news I 

heard 
Of you and of my cousin. May you 

be 
Most happy ; and the good he meant 

the world. 
Replenish his own life. Say what I 

say. 
And let my word be sweeter for 5'our 

mouth. 
As you are you . . I only Aurora Leigh.' 

That's quiet, guarded. Though she hold 

it up 
Against the light, she'll not see through 

It more 
Than lies there to be seen. So much for 

pride ; 
And now for peace, a little I Let me 

stop 
All writing back . . ' Sweet thanks, my 

sweetest friend. 
You've made more joyful my great joy 

itself.' 
— N(j, that's too simple ! she would 

twist It thus. 



410 



AURORA LEIGH. 



'My J03' would still be as sweet as 

thyme in dniwers, 
However shut up \n the dark and dry ; 
But violets, aired and dewed by love like 

yours, 
Out-smell all thyme ; we keep that in 

our clothes, , 

But drop the other down our bosoms 

till 
They smell like ' . . ah, I see her writing 

back 
Just so. She'll make a nosegay of her 

words. 
And tie it with blue ribbons at the end 
To suit a poet ;— pshaw ! 

And then we'll have 
The call to church ; the broken, sad, 

bad dream 
Dreamed out at hist ; the marriage-vow 

complete 
Witli the marriage-breakfast ; praying 

in white gloves, 
Drawn off in haste for drinking pagan 

toasts 
lu somewhat stronger wine than any 

sipped 
By gods snice P.acchus had his way 

with grapes. 

A postscript stops all that and rescues 
me. 

' You need not write, I have been over- 
worked. 

And think of leaving London, England 
even. 

And hastening to get nearer to the sun 

Wiiere men sleep better. So, adieu.' — 
I fold 

And seal, — and now I'm out of all the 
coil ; 

I breathe now ; I spring upward like a 
branch 

A ten-year school-boy with a crooked 
stick 

May pull down to his level in search of 
nuts. 

But cannot hold a moment.' How we 
twang 

Back on the blue sky, and assert our 
height, • 

While he stares after ! Now, the won- 
der seems 

That I could wrong myself by sucii a 
doubt. 



We poets always have uneasy hearts ; 
Because our hearts, large-rounded as the 

globe. 
Can turn but one side to the sun at once. 
We are used to dip our artist-hands in 

And potash, trying potentialities 

Of alternated color, till at last 

We get confused, and wonder for our 

skin 
How nature tinged it first. Well — here's 

the true 
Good flesh-color ; I recognise my hand. 
Which Romney Leigh may clasp as just 

a friend's. 
And keep his clean. 

And now, my Italy. 
Alas, if we could ride with naked souls 
And make no noise and pay no price at 

all, 
I wo lid have seen thee sooner, Italy, — 
For still I have heard thee crying 

through my life. 
Thou piercing silence of ecstatic graves, 
Men call that )iame 1 

But even a witch to-day 
Must melt down golden pieces in tho 

nard 
Wherewith to anoint her broomstick ere 

she rides ; 
And poets evermore are scant of gold, 
And if they find a piece behind the 

door 
It turns by sunset to a withered leaf. 
The Devil himself scarce trusts his pat. 

ented 
Gold - making art to any who make 

rhymes. 
But culls his Faustus from philosophers 
And not from poets. 'Leave my Job,* 

said God, 
And so the Devil leaves him without 

pence. 
And poverty proves plainly special 

In these new, just, admmistrative times 
Men clamour for an order of merit ; 

Why ? 
Here's black bread on the table and no 

wine ! 
At least I am a poet in being poor : 
Thank God. 1 wonder if the in.uiu- 

script 



AURORA LEIGH. 



417 



^ Of my long poem, if 'twere sold outright, 
. Would fetch enough to buy me shoes, to 
go 

A-foot, (thrown in, the necessary patch 

For the other side the Alps) ? it cannot 
be : 

I fear that I must sell this residue 

Of my father's books ; although the 
Elzevirs 

Have fly - leaves over-written by his 
hand 

In faded notes as thick and fine and 
brown 

As cobwebs on a tawny monument 

Of the Old Greeks — conferenda hcec 
cuvt his — 

Corrupt e citat — lege potius. 

And so on, in the scholar's regal way 

Of giving judgment on the parts of 
speech, 

As if he sate on all twelve thrones up- 
piled, 

Arraigning Israel. Ay, but books and 
notes 

Must go together. And this Proclustoo 

In these dear quaint contracted Grecian 
types. 

Fantastically crumpled, like his thoughts 

Which would not seem too plain ; you 
go round twice 

For one step forward, then you take it 
back 

Because you're somewhat giddy ; 
there's the rule 

For Proclus. Ah, I stained this middle 
leaf 

With pressing in't my Florence ins- 
bell. 

Long stalk and all ; my father chided 
me 

For that stain of blue blood, — I recol- 
lect 

The peevish turn his voice took, — ' Sil- 
ly girls. 

Who plant their flowers in our philoso- 

To make it fine, and only sp6il the 

book ! 
No more of it, Aurora.' Yes — no more ! 
Ah, blame of love, that's sweeter than 

all praise 
Of those who love not I 'lis so lost on 

me, 
I cannot, in such beggared life, afford 



To lose my Proclus. Not for Florence 
even. 

The kissing Judas, Wolff, shall go in- 
stead, 

Who builds us such a royal bock as 
this 

To honour a chief-poet, folio-built. 

And writes above, ' The house of No- 
body :' 

Who floats in cream, a,s rich as any 
sucked 

From Juno's breasts, the broad Home- 
ric lines, 

And, while with their spondaic prodi- 
gious mouths 

They lap the lucent margins as babe- 
gods. 

Proclaims them bastards. Wolff's an 
atheist ; 

And if the Iliad fell out, as he says. 

By mere fortuitous concourse of old 
songs. 

Conclude as much too for the universe. 

That Wolff, those Platos : sweep the 
upper shelves 

As clean as this, and so I am almost 
rich, 

Which means, not forced to think of 
being poor 

In sight of ends. To-morrow : no de- 
lay. 

I'll wait in Paris till good Carrington 

Dispose of such, and, having chaffered 
for 

My book's price with the publisher, di- 
rect 

All proceeds to me. Just a line to ask 

His help. 

And now I come, my Italy, 

My own hills! Are you 'ware of me, 
my hills. 

How I burn toward you ? do you feel 
to-night 

The urgency and yearning of my soul, 

As sleeping mothers feel the sucking 
babe 

And smile ? — Nay, not so much as when 
in heat 

Vain lightnings catch at your inviolate 
tops 

And tremble while ye arestedfast. Still 
ye go 



4t8 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Your own determined, calm, indifferent 
way 

Toward sunrise, shade by shade, and 
light by light ; 

Of all the grand progression nought left 
out ; 

As if God verily made you for your- 
selves, 

And would not interrupt your life with 
ours. 



SIXTH BOOK. 

The English have a scornful insular way 
Of calling the French light. The lev- 
ity 
Is in the judgment only, which yet 

stands ; 
For say a foolish thing but oft enough 
(And here's the secret of a hundred 

creeds, 
Men get opinions as boys learn to spell, 
By re-iteration chiefly) the same thing 
Shall pass at last for absolutely wise, 
And not with fools exclusively. And so 
We say the French are light, as if we 

said 
The cat mews or the milch-cow gives 

us milk : 
Say rather, cats are milked and milch- 
cows mew ; 
For what is lightness but inconsequence. 
Vague fluctuation 'twixt effect and 

cause, 
Compelled by neither? Is a bullet 

light, 
That dashes from the gun-mouth, while 

the eye 
Winks and the heart beats one, to flat- 
ten itself 
To a wafer on the white speck on a 

wall 
A hundred paces off? Even so direct. 
So sternly imdivertible of aim. 
Is this French people. 

All idealists 
Too absolute and earnest, with them all 
The idea of a knife cuts real flesli ; 
And still, devouring the safe interval 
Which nature placed between the 
thouiht and act 



With those too fiery and impatient 
souls, 

They threaten conflagration to the world 

And rush with most unscrupulous logic 
on 

Impossible practice. Set your orators 

To blow upon them with loud windy 
mouths 

Through watchword phrases, jest or 
sentiment, 

Which drives our hurley brutal English 
mobs 

Like so much chaff, whichever way 
they blow, — 

This light French people will not thus 
be driven. 

They turn indeed ; but then they turn 
upon 

Some central pivot of their thought and 
choice. 

And veer out by the force of holding 
fast. 

— ^That's hard to understand, for En- 
glishmen 

Unused to abstract questions, and un- 
trained 

To trace the involutions, valve by valve, 

In each orbed bulb-root of a general 
truth. 

And mark what .subtly fine integument 

Divides opposed compartments. Free- 
dom's self 

Comes concrete to us, to be understood. 

Fixed in a feudal form incarnately 

To suit our ways of thought and reve- 
rence. 

The special form, with us, being still 
the thing. * 

With us, I say, though I'm of Italy 

By mother's birth and grave, by father's 
grave 

And memory ; let it be, — a poet's heart 

Can swell to a pair of nationalities. 

However ill-lodged in a woman's 
breast. 

And so I am strong to love this noble 

France. 
This poet of the nations, who dreams on 
And wails on (while the household goes 

to wreck) 
For ever, after some ideal good, — 
Some equal poise of sex, some imvowcd 

love 



AURORA LEIGH. 



419 



Inviolate, some spontaneous brother- 
hood. 
Some wealth, that leaves none poor and 

finds none tired, 
S«me freedom of the many that respects 
'I'iie v/isdom of the iew. Heroic 

dreams ! 
Sublime, to dream so ; natural, to wake: 
And sad, to ase such lofty scaffoldings. 
Erected for the building of a church. 
To build instead a brothel . . or a pris- 
on — 
May God save France ! 

And if at last she sighs 
Her great soul up into a great man's 

face, 
To flush his temples out so gloriously 
'I'hat few dare carp at Caesar for being 

bald. 
What then ?— this Czesar represents, not 

reigns. 
And is no despot, though twice abso- 
lute : 
This Head has all the people for a 

heart ; 
This purple's lined with the democ- 
racy, — 
Now let him see to it ! for a rent withm 
Must leave irreparable rags without. 

A serious riddle : find such any where 
Except m France ; and when 'tis found 

in France, 
B; sure to read it rightly. So, I mused 
Up and down, up and down, the ter- 
raced streets. 
The glittering Boulevards, the white 

colonnades 
Of fair fantastic Paris who wears trees 
Like plumes, as if man made them, spire 

and tower 
As if they had grown by nature, tossing 

up 
Her fountains in the sunshine of the 

squares. 
As if in beauty's game she tosse4 the 

dice. 
Or blew the silver down-balls of her 

dreams 
To sow futurity with the seeas of thought 
And count the passage of her festive 

hours. 

The city swims in verdure, beautiful 



As Venice on the waters, the sea-swan. 
What bosky gardens dropped in close- 
walled courts 
As plums in ladies' laps, who start and 

laugh : 
What miles of streets that run on after 

trees. 
Still carrying all the necessary shops. 
Those open caskets with the jewels seen! 
And trade is art, and art's philosophy. 
In Paris. There's a silk, for instance, 

there. 
As worth an artist's study for the folds. 
As that bronze opposite ! nay, the bronze 

has faults ; 
Art's here too artful, — conscious as a 

maid 
Who leans to mark her shadow on the 

wall 
Until she lose a 'vantage in her step. 

Yet Art walks forward, and knows 

where to walk : 
The artists also are idealists. 
Too absolute for nature, logical 
To austerity in the application of 
The special theory : not a soul content 
To paint a crooked pollard and an ass. 
As the English will, because they find 

it so 
And like it somehow. — ^There the old 

Tuileries 
Is pulling its high cap down on its eyes. 
Confounded, conscience-stricken, and 

amazed 
By the apparition of a new fair face 
In those devouring mirrors. Through 

the grate 
Within the gardens, what a heap of 

babes. 
Swept up like leaves beneath the chest- 
nut trees 
From every street and alley of the town. 
By ghosts perhaps that blow too bleak 

this way 
A-looking for their heads ! Dear pretty 

babes, 
I wish them luck to have their ball-play 

out 
Before the next change. Here the an 

is thronged 
With statues poised upon their columns 

fine. 
As if to stand a moment were a feat. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Against that blue ! What squares I 

wliat breathing-room 
For a nation that runs fast, — ay, runs 

against 
Tlie dentist's teeth at the corner in jiale 

rows, 
Wliicii grin at progress in an epigram. 

I walked the day out, listening to the 
chink 

Of the first Napoleon's dry bones in his 
second grave 

By victories guarded 'neath the golden 
dome 

That caps all Paris like a bubble. ' Shall 

These dry bones live,' thought Louis 
Philippe once. 

And lived to know. Herein is argu- 
ment 

For kings and politicians, but still more 

For poets, who bear buckets to the well 

Of ampler draught. 

These crowds are very good 
For meditation, (when we are very 

strong) 
Though love of beauty makes us timor- 
ous. 
And draws us backward from the coarse 

town-sights 
To count the daisies upon dappled li ;lds. 
And hear the streams bleat on among 

the hills 
In innocent and indolent repose ; 
While still with silken elegiac thoughts 
We wind out from us the distracting 

world 
And die into the chrysalis of a man. 
And leave the best that may, to come of 

us 
In some brown moth. I would be bold 

and bear 
To look into the swarthiest face of things. 
For God's sake who has made them. 



Six days* work ; 

The last day shutting 'twi.xt its dawn 
and eve. 

The whole work bettered of the pre- 
vious five ! 

Since God collected and resumed in 
man 



The firmaments, the strata, and the 

lights, 
Fish, fowl, and beast, and insect, — all 

their trains 
Of various life caught back upon I^s 

arm. 
Reorganised, and constituted man, 
The microcosm, the adding up of works ; 
Within whose fluttering nostrils, then, 

at last 
Consummating Himself the Maker sigh- 
ed. 
As some strong winner at the foot race 

sighs 
Touching the goal 

Humanity is great ; 
And, if I would not rather pour upon 
An ounce of common, ugly, human dust, , 
An artisan's palm or a peasant's brow, 
Unsmooth, ignoble, save to me and God, 
Than track old Nilus to his silver roots. 
And wait on all the changes of the 

nu>on 
Among the mountain-peaks of Thcssaly, 
(Until her magic crystal round itself 
For many a witch to .see in) — .set it down 
As weakness, — strength by no means. 

How is this 
That men of science, osteologists 
And surgeons, beat some poets in respect : 
For nature, — count nought common or 

unclean. 
Spend raptures upon perfect specimens 
Of indurated veins, distorted joints. 
Or beautiful new cases of cui-ved spine ; 
While we, we are shocked at nature's 

falling off, 
We dare to shrink back from her warts 

and blains. 
We will not, when she sneezes, look at 

her. 
Not even to say, ' Cod bless her '? 

That's our wrong. 
For that, she will not trust us often with 
Her larger sense of beauty and desire. 
But tethers us to a lily or a rose 
And bids us diet on the dew inside. 
Left ignorant that the hungry beggar- 
boy 
(Who stares unseen against our absent 

eyes. 
And wonders at the gods that we must 

be. 
To pass so carelessly for the oranges 1) 



AURORA LEIGH. 



it\ 



Bears yot a breastful of a fellow-world 
I'o this world, undisparaged, unde- 

spoiled. 
And (while we scorn him for a flower or 

two. 
As being. Heaven help us, less poetical) 
Contains himself both flowers and fir- 
maments 
And surging seas and aspectable stars 
And all that we would pash him out of 

sight 
In order to see nearer. Let us pray 
God's grace to keep God's image in re- 
pute : 
That so the poet and philanthropist 
(Even I and Romney) may stand side 

by side. 
Because we both stand face to face with 

men 
Contemplating the people in the rough, 
Yet each so follow a vocation, — his 
And mine. 

I walked on, musing with myself 
On life and art, and whether after all 
A larger metaphysics might not help 
Gur physics, a completer poetry 
Adjust our daily life and vulgar wants 
More fully than the special outside 

plans. 
Phalansteries, material institutes, 
The civil conscriptions and lay monas- 
teries 
Preferred by modern thinkers, as they 

thought 
The bread of man indeed made all his 

life. 
And washing seven times in the ' Peo- 
ple's Baths ' 
Were sovereign for a people's leprosy. 
Still leaving out the essential prophet's 

word 
That comes in power. On which, we 

thunder down. 
We prophets, poets, — Virtue's in the 

■word ! 
The maker burnt the darkness upJ with 

His, 
To inaugurate the use of vocal life ; 
And, plant a poet's word even, deep 

enough 
In any man's breast, looking presently 
For offshoots, you have done more for 
the man 



Than if you dressed him in a broail- 
cioth coat 

And warmed his Sunday potage at your 
fire. 

Yet Romney leaves me . . . 

God 1 what face is that ? 

(^ Romney, O Marian ! 

Walking on the quays 

And pulling thoughts to jjieces leisurely. 

As if I caught at gra.sses in a field 

And bit them slow between my absent 
lips. 

And shred them with my hands . . 

What face is that ? 

What a face, what a look, what a like- 
ness ! Full on mine 

The sudden blow of it came down, till 
all 

My blood swam, my eyes dazzled. 
Then I sprang — 



It was as if a meditative man 

Were dreaming out a summer afternoon 

And watching gnats a-prick upon a 

pond, 
When something floats up suddenly, out 

there. 
Turns over . . a dead face, known once 

alive — 
So old, so new I It would be dreadful 

now 
To lose the sight and keep the doubt of 

this. 
He plunges — ha I he has lost it in the 

splash. 

I plunged — I tore the crowd up, either 

side. 
And rashed on, — forward, forward . . 

after her. 
Her? whom? 

A woman sauntered slow in front. 
Munching an apple, — she left off 

amazed 
As if I had snatched it : that's not she, 

at lea.st. 
A man walked arm-linked with a lady 

veiled. 
Both heads dropped closer than the 

need of talk : 
They started ; he forgot her with his 

face. 
And she, herself, — and clung to him as i« 



AURORA LEIGH. 



My look were fatal. Such a stream of 
folk. 

And all with cares and business of their 
Dwn ! 

I ran the whole quay down against their 
eyes ; 

No Marian ; nowhere Marian. Almost, 
now, 

I could call Marian, Marian, with the 
slirieic 

Of desperate creatures calling for the 
Dead. 

Where is she, was she ? was slie any- 
where ? 

I stood still, breathless, gazing, strain- 
ing out 

In every uncertain distance, till at last, 

A gentleman abstracted as myself 

Came full against me, then resolved the 
clash 

In voluble c.vciLses, — obviously 

Some learned member of the Institute 

Upon his way theic, \\alking, fur his 
health. 

While meditating on the last ' Dis- 
course ;' 

Pinching the empty air 'twixt finger 
and thumb. 

From which the snuff being ousted by 
that shock, 

Defiled his snow-white waistcoat duly 
pricked 

At the button-hole with honourable red ; 

' Madame, your jjardon,' — tliere lie 
swerved from me 

A metre, as confounded as he had 
heard 

That Dumas would be chosen to fill up 

The next chair vacant, by his ' men in 
us,' 

Since when was genius found respecta- 
ble ? 

It passes in its place, indeed, — which 
means 

The seventh floor back, or else the hos- 
pital : 

Revolving pistols are ingenious things. 

But prudent men (Academicans are) 

Scarce keep them in the cupboard next 
the prunes. 

And so, abandoned to a bitter mirth, 
I loitered to my inn. O world, O 
world. 



jurists, rhymers, dreamers, what you 

please. 
We play a weary game of hide and 

seek ! 
We shape a figure of our fantasy. 
Call nothing something, and run after 

it 
And lose it, lose ourselves too in the 

search. 
Till clash against us, comes a some- 
body 
Who also has lost something and is 

lost. 
Philosopher against Philanthropist, 
Academician against poet, man 
Against woman, against the living tVc 

dead. — 
Then home, with a bad headache and 

worst jest. 

To change the water for my helio- 
tropes 
And yellow roses. Paris has such 

flowers. 
But England, also. 'Twas a yellow 

rose, 
By that south window of the little 

house. 
My cousin Romney gathered with his 

hand 
On all my birthdays for me, save the 

last : 
And then I shook the tree too rough, too 

rough. 
For roses to stay after. 

Now, my maps. 

1 must not linger here from Italy 

Till the last nightingale is tired of song. 
And the last fire-fly dies off in the 

maize. 
My soul's in haste to leap into the sun 
And scorch and seethe itself to a finer 

mood. 
Which here, in this chill north, is apt to 

stand 
Too stiffly in former moulds. 

That face persists. 
It floats up, it turns over in my mind. 
As like to Marian, as one dead is like 
The same alive. In very deed a face 
And not a fancy, though it vanished so ; 
The small fair face between the darks 
of hair. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I ased to liken, when I saw her first. 
To a point of moonlit water down a well: 
The low brow, the frank space between 

the eyes. 
Which always had the brown pathetic 

look 
Of a dumb creature who had been beaten 

once 
And never since was easy with the 

world. 
A.h, ah — now I remember perfectly 
Those eyes to-day, — how ovcrlarge they 

seemed, 
ks, if some patient passionate despair 
Like a coal dropt and forgot on tapes- 

.try. 
Which slowly burns a widening circle 

out) 
Had burnt them larger, larger. And 

those eyes 
To-day, I do remember, saw me too, 
\s I saw them, with conscious lids 

astrain 

In recognition. Now a fantasy, 
\ simple shade or image of the brain, 
[s merely passive, does not retro-act, 
[s seen, but sees not. 

'Twas a real face. 
Perhaps a real Marian. 

Which being so, 
ought to write to Romney, ' Marian's 

here. 
Be comforted for Marian.' 

My pen fell. 
My hands struck sharp together as 

hands do 
Which hold at nothing. Can I write to 

him 
'\. half truth ? can I keep my own soul 

blind 
To the other half, . . the worse ? What 

are our souls, 
[f still, to run on straight a sober pace 
Mor start at every pebble or dead leaf. 
They must wear blinkers, ignore facts, 

suppress ' 

Six tenths of the road ? Confront the 

truth, my soul ! 
\nd oh, as truly as that was Marian's 

face. 
The arms of that same Marian clasped 

a thing 



. . Not hid so well beneath the scanty 

shawl, 
I cannot name it now for what it was. 

A child. Small business has a ca.st- 
avvay 

Like Marian with that crown of prosper- 
ous wives. 

At which the gentlest she grows arro- 
gant 

And says, ' my child.' Who'll find an 
emerald ring 

On a beggar's middle finger, and require 

More testimony to convict a thief? 

A child's too costly for .so mere a wretch ; 

She filched it somewhere ; and it means, 
with her, 

Instead of honor, blessing, . . merely 
shame 

I cannot write to Romney, ' Here she is. 

Here's Marian found! I'll set you on 
her track : 

I saw her here, in Paris, . . and her 
child. 

She put away your love two years ago. 

But, plainly, not to starve. You suf- 
fered then ; 

And, now that you've forgot her utterly 

As any last year's annual in whose place 

You've planted a thick flowering ever- 
green, 

I choose, being kind, to write and tell 
you this 

To make you wholly easy — she's not 
dead, 

But only . . damned.' 

Stop there : I go too fast. 

I'm cruel like the rest, — in haste to take 

The first stir in the arras for a rat. 

And set my barking, biting thoughts 
upon't. 

— A child! what then? Suppose a 
neighbour's sick 

And asked her, ' Marian, carry out my 
child 

In this Spring air,' — I punish her for 
that ? 

Or say, the child should hold her round 
the neck 

For good child-reasons, that he liked it 
so 

And would not leave her — she had win- 
ning ways — 



4*4 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I brand her therefore that she took the 

child ? 
Not so. _ 

I will not write to Romney Leijjh. 
For now he's happy, — and she may in- 
deed 
Be guilty, — and the knowledge of her 

fault 
Would draggle his smooth time. But I, 

whose days 
Are not so fine they cannot bear the 

rain. 
And who moreover having seen her 

face 
Must sec it again, , , will see it, by my 

hopen 
Of one day seeing heaven too. The 

rolice 
track her, hound her, ferret their 

own soil ; 
We'll di^ this Paris to its catacombs 
But certainly we'll find her, have her 

out, 
And save her, if she will or will not — 

child 
Or no child, — If a child, then one to 

save I 

The long weeks passed on without con- 
sequence. 
As easy find a footstep on the sand 
The morning after spring-tide, as the 

trace 
Of Marian's feet between the incessant 

surfs 
Of this live flood. She may have 

moved this way, — 
But so tbe star-fish docs, and crosses out 
The dent of her small shoe. The foiled 

police 
Renounced me ; ' Could they find a girl 

and child. 
No other signalment but a girl .ind 

child? 
No data shown but noticeable eyes 
And hair in masses, low upon the brow. 
As if it were an iron crown rmd pressed ? 
Friends heighten, and suppose they 

specify ; 
Why, girls with hair and eyes, are every- 

where 
In Paris ; they had turned me up in 

vain 
No Marian Erie indeed, but certainly 



Mathildes, Justines, Victoires, , . or, if 1 

sought 
The English Bctsis, Saras, by the score. 
They might as well go out into the 

fields 
To find a speckled bean, that's somehow 

specked. 
And somewhere in the pod.' — ^Thcy left 

me so. 
Shall / leave Marian 1 have I dreamed] 

a dream ? 
— I thank God I have found hert I 

must say 
' Thank God,' for finding her, although) 

'tis true 
I find the world more sad and wickedd 

for't. 
But she— 

I'll write about her, presently 
My hand's a-tremble as I had just 

caught up 
My heart to write with, in the place! 

of it. 
At least you'd take these letters to bei 

writ 
At sea, in ftorm ! — wait now . , 

A .simple chance* 
Did all I could not sUep last night,i 

and tired 
Of turning on my pillow and harder i 

thoughts. 
Went out at early morning, when thej 

air 

Is delicate with some last starry touch, i 
To wander through the Market-place oft 

Flowers | 

(The prettiest haunt in Paris), and makej 

sure 
At worst that there were roses in the 

world 
So M-aidering, musing with the artist's i 

eye. 
That keeps the shade-side of the thing; 

it loves. 
Half-absent, whole-observing, while the; 

crowd 
Of young vivacious and black-braided i 

heads 
Dipped, quick as finches in a blossomed 

tree. 
Among the nosegays, cheapening thin 

and that 
In such a cheerful twitter of rapid 

speech, — 



AURORA LEIGH. 



4*5 



My heart leapt in me, startled by a voice 
'Ihat slowly, faintly, with long breaths 

that marked 
The interval between the wish and 

word, 
Inquired in 8franger*« French, 'Would 

t/iat be much, 
That branch of flowering mountain- 

gorse 1 — ' So much? 
Too much for me, then 1 ' turnmg the 

face round 
So close upon me, that I felt the sigh 
It turned with, 

' Marian, Marian I '—face to face — 
' Marian I 1 find you. Shall I let you 

go?' 
1 held her two slight wrists with both 

my hands ; 
' Ah Alarian, Marian, can I let you go ?' 
—She fluttered from me like a cycla- 
men. 
As white, which taken in a sudden wind 
Beats on against the palisade. *— ' Let 

pass,' 
She said at last. ' I will not,' I replied ; 
' I lost my sister Marian many days. 
And sought her ever in my walks and 

prayers, 
And now I find her ... do we throw 

away 
The bread we worked and prayed for, — 

crumble it 
And drop it, . . to do even so by thee 
Whom still I've hungered after more 

than bread, 
My sister Marian?— Can I hurt thee, 

dear? 
Then why distrust me ? Never tremble 

so. 
Come with me rather where we'll talk 

and live 
And none shall vex us. I've a home for 

you 
And me and no one else ' . . . 

She shook her head. 
A home for you and me and nc^ one 

else 
Ill-suits one of us : I prefer to such, 
A roof of grass on which a flower might 

spring. 
Less costly to me than the cheapest 

here ; 
A,nd yet I could not, at this hour, afford 
A like home evea. That you offer yours, 



I tliank you. You are good as heaven 
itself— 

As good as one I knew before . . Fare- 
well!' 

I loosed her hands, — ' In hit name, no 
farewell 1' 

(She stood as if I held her,) 'for his 
sake. 

For his sake, Romney's I by the good he 
meant, 

Ay, always 1 by the love he pressed for 
once,— 

And by the grief, reproach, abandon- 
ment. 

He took in change ' . . 

' He, Romney I who grieved him t 

Who had the heart for't ? what reproach 
touched him / 

Be merciful, — speak quickly.' 

' Therefore come,' 

I answered with authority,—' I think 

We dare to speak such things and name 
such names 

In the open squares of Paris 1 ' 

Not a word 
She said, but in a gentle humbled way, 
(As one who had forgot herself in grief) 
Turned round and followed closely 

where I went, 
As if 1 led her by a narrow plank 
Across devouring waters, step by step,— - 
And so in silence we walked on a mile. 

And then she stopped : her face was 

white as wax. 
' We go much further ?' 

* You are ill,' I asked, 
' Or tired V 

She looked the whiter for her smile. 
' There's one at home,' she said, ' has 

need of me 
By this time,— and I must not let him 

wait.' 

' Not even,* I asked, * to hear of Romney 

Leigh?' 
' Not even,' she said, ' to hear of Mister 

Leigh.' 

' In that case,' I resumed, ' I go with 

you. 
And we can talk the same thing there 

as here. 



426 



AURORA LEIGH. 



None waits for me : I have my day to 
spend.' 

Her lips moved in a spasm without a 

sound, — 
But then she spoke. ' It shall be as you 

please ; 
And better so — 'tis shorter seen than 

told. 
And though you will not find me worth 

your pains. 
That even, may be worth some pains to 

know 
For one as good as you are.' 

Then she led 
The waj', and I, as !)y a narrow plank 
Across devournig waters, followed her. 
Stepping by her footsteps, breathing by 

her breath. 
And holding her with eyes that would 

not slip ; 
And so, without a word, we walked a 

mile. 
And so, another mile, without a word. 

Until the peopled streets being all dis- 
missed. 

House-rows frad groups all scattered 
like a flock. 

The market -gardens thickened, and the 
long 

White walls beyond, like spidei-s' out- 
side threads. 

Stretched, feeling blindly toward the 
country-fields 

Through half-built habitations and half- 
dug 

Foundations, — intervals of trenchant 
chalk, 

That bit betwixt the grassy uneven 
turfs 

Where goats (vine tendrils trailing from 
their mouths) 

Stood perched on edges of the cellarage 

Which should be, staring as about to 
leap 

To find their coming Bacchus. All the 
place 

Seemed less a cultivation than a waste : 

Men work here, only, — scarce begin to 
live : 

All's sad, the coiuitry struggling with 
the town, 



Like an imtamed hawk upon a strong 

man's fist. 
That beats its wings and tries to get 

away. 
And cannot choose be satisfied so soon 
To hop through court -yards with its 

right foot tied. 
The vintage plains and pastoral hills in 

sight. 

We stopped beside a house too high and 

slim 
'I'o stand there by itself, but waiting till 
Five others, two on this side, three on 

that. 
Should grow up from the sullen second 

floor 
They pause at now, to build it to a row. , 
The upper windows partly were un- 

glazed 
Meantime, — a meagre, unripe house : a 1 

line 
Of rigid poplars elbowed it behind. 
And just in front, beyond the lime and 1 

bricks 
That wronged the grass between it and 1 

the road, 
A great acacia with its slender trunk 
And overpoise of multitudinous leaver, 
(In which a hundred fields might spill 1 

their dew 
And intense verdure, yet find room 

enough) 
Stood reconciling all the place with 

green. 

I followed up the stair upon her step. 

She hurried upward, shot across a face. 

A woman's on the landing, — ' How now, 
now ! 

Is no one to have holidays but you ? 

You said an hour, and staid three hours, 
I think. 

And Julie waiting for your betters here ?j 

Why if he had waked, he might havej 
waked, for me.' 

— Just murmuring an e.vcusing word sht 
passed 

And shut the rest out with the chamber- 
door. 

Myself shut in beside her. 

'Twas a room 

Scarce larger than a grave, and near as j 
bare ; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



427 



Two stools, a pallet-bed ; I saw the 

room : ^ , , 

A mouse could find no sort of shelter 

m't. 
Much less a greater secret; curtam- 

less,— 
The window fixed you with its torturing 

eye, 
Defying you to take a step apart 
If peradventure you would hide a thing. 
I saw the whole room, I and Marian 

there 
Alone. 

Alone ? She threw her bonnet oft. 
Then sighing as 'twere sighing the last 

time. 
Approached the bed, and drew a shawl 

away : 
You could not peel a fruit you fear to 

bruise 
More calmly and more carefully than 

so,— 
Nor would you find within, a rosier 

flushed 
Pomegranate— 

There he lay upon his back. 
The yearling creature, warm and moist 

with life 
To the bottom of his dimples,— to the 

ends 
Of the lovely tumbled curls about his 

face ; 
For since he had been covered over- 
much 
To keep him from the light glare, both 

his cheeks 
Were hot and scarlet as the first live 

rose 
The shepherd's heart-blood ebbed away 

into. 
The faster for his love. And love was 

here 
As instant : in the pretty baby-mouth. 
Shut close as if for dreaming that it 

sucked ; 
The little naked feet drawn up the way 
Of nestled birdlings ; everything so 

soft 
And tender, — to the tiny holdfast 

hands, 
Which, closing on the finger into sleep. 
Had kept the mould oft. 

While we stood there dumb. 



For oh, that it should take suck inno- 
cence 

To prove just guilt, I thought, and stood 
there dumb ; 

The light upon his eyelids pricked them 
wide. 

And, staring out at us with all their 
blue. 

As half perplexed between the angel- 
hood . 

He had been away to visit in his sleep. 

And our most mortal presence, — gradu- 
ally . . 

He saw his mother's face, accepting it 

In change for heaven itself, with such a 
smile 

As might have well been learnt there,— 
never moved. 

But smiled on in a drowse of ecstasy. 

So happy (half with her and half with 
heaven) 

He could not have the trouble to be 
stirred. 

But smiled and lay there. Like a rose, 
Isaid : 

As red and still indeed as any rose. 

That blows in all the silence of its 
leaves, . 

Content, in blowing, to fulfil its life. 

She leaned above him (drinking him as 

wine) 
In that extremity of love, 'twill pass 
For agony or rapture, seeing that love 
Includes the whole of nature, rounding 

it 
To love . . no more, — since more can 

never be 
Than just love. Self-forgot, cast out of 

self. ^ ^ 

And drowning in the transport of the 

sight, . . , 

Her whole pale passionate face, moutli. 

forehead, eyes. 
One gaze, she stood : then, slowly as he 

smiled. 
She smiled too. slowly, smiling unaware. 
And drawing from his countenance to 

hers 
A fainter red, as if she watched a flame 
And stood in it a-glow. ' How beauti- 
ful,' 
Said she. 



428 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I answered, trying to be cold, 
(Must sin have compensations, was my 

thought. 
As if it were a holy thing like grief? 
And is a wontxan to be fooled aside 
From putting vice down, with that wo- 
man's toy 

A baby ?) ' Ay I the child is well 

enough,' 
I answered. * If his mother's palms are 

clean 
ITiey need be glad of course in clasping 

such : 
But if not,— I would rather lay my hand, 
Were I she, — on God's brazen altar-ban. 
Red-hot with burning sacrificial lambs, 
Than touch the sacred curls of such a 
child.' 

She plunged her fingers in hi* clustering 
locks. 

As one who would not be afraid of fire ; 

And then with indrawn ue^dy utter- 
ance said, 

* My lamb, my lamb I although, through 

such as thou, 

The most unclean got courage and ap- 
proach 

To God, once,— .now they cannot, even 
with men, 

Find grace enough for pity and gentle 
words,' 

* My Marian,' I made answer, grave 

and sad, 

* The priest who stole a lamb to offer 

htm, 
Was still a thief. And if a woman steals 
(Through God's own barrier-hedges of 

true love. 
Which fence out license in securing 

love) 
A child like this, that smile* so in her 

face, 
She is no mother but a kidnapper. 
And he's a dismal orphan . . not a son ; 
Whom all her kisses cannot feed so full 
He will not miss hereafter a pure home 
To live in, a pure heart to lean against, 
A pure good mother's name and mem- 
ory 
To hope by, when the world grows thick 

and bad, 
And he feels out for virtue.' 



' Oh,' she smiled 
With bitter pattehc, ' th^ child takes 

his chance. 
Not much worse off in being fatherless 
Than I was, fatnerfed. He will say, be- 
like, 
His mother was the saddest creature 

born ; 
He'll say his mother lived so contrary 
To joy, that even the kindest, seeing her. 
Grew sometimes almost cruel : hell not 

say 
She flew contrarious in the face of God 
With bat-wings of her vices. Stole my 

child,- 
My flower of earth, my only flower on 

earth, 
My sweet, my beauty l' . .Up she 

snatched the child. 
And, breaking on him in a storm of 

tears, 
Drew out her long sobs from their shiver- 
ing roots, 
Until he took it for a game, and stretch- 
ed 
His feet and flapped his eager arms like 

wings, 
And crowed and gurgled through his 

infant laugh : 
' Mine, mine,' she said ; ' I have as sure 

a right 
As any glad proud mother in the world. 
Who sets her darling down to cut his 

teeth 
Upon her church-ring. If she talks of 

law, 
I talk of law I I claim my mother-dues 
By law, — the law which now is para- 
mount ; 
The common law, by which the poor 

and weak 
Are trodden underfoot by vicious men. 
And loathed for ever after by the good. 
Let pass ! I did not filch . . I found 
the child,' 

' You found him, Marian V 

' Ay, I found him where 
I found my curse, — in the gutter, with 

my shame I 
What have you, any of you, to say to ■ 

that. 
Who all are happy.and sit safe and high 



AURORA LEIGH, 



429 



And never spoke before to arraign my 

right 
To grief itself? What, what, . .being 

beaten down 

g'" r hoofs of maddened oxen into a ditch, 
alf-dead, whole mangled, . when a girl 

at last. 
Breathes, sees , . and finds there, bed- 
ded in her flesh. 
Because of the extremity of the shock. 
Some com of price I . . and when a 

good man comes 
(That's God 1 the best men are not quite 

as good) 
And says, ' I dropped the coin there : 

take it you. 
And keep it, — it shall pay you for the 

loss,' — 
You all put up your finger — 'See the 

thief I 
'Observe that precious thing she has 

come to filch : 

• How bad those girls are I' Oh, my 

flower, my pet, 
I dare forget I have you in my arms. 
And fly off to be angry with the world. 
And fright you, hurt you with my tem- 
pers, till 
You double up your lip? Why, that 

indeed 
Is bad : a naughty mother 1 

' You mistake,' 
I interrupted, * If I loved you not, 
I should not, Marian, certainly be here. 

* Alas,' she said, ' you are so very good ; 
And yet I wish indeed you had never 

come 
To make me sob until I vex the child. 
It b not wholesome for these pleasure- 
plats 
To be so early watered by our brine. 
And then, who knows 1 he may not like 

me now 
As well, perhaps, as ere he saw me fret. 
One's ugly fretting 1 he has eyes the 

same < 

As angels, but he cannot see as deep. 
And so I've kept for ever in his sight 
A sort of smile to please him, as y»a 

place 
A green thing from the garden in a cup, 
To make believe it grows there. Look, 
my sweet. 



My cowslip-ball 1 we've done with that 

cross face. 
And here's the face come back you 

used to like. 
Ah, ah ! he laughs I he likes me. Ah, 

Miss Leigh, 
You're great and pure; but were you 

purer still, — 
As if you had walked, we'll say, no 

otherwhere 
Than up and down the new Jerusalem, 
And held your trailing lutestring up 

yourself 
From brushing the twelve stones, for 

fear of some 
Small speck as little as a needle-prick, 
White stitched on white, — the child 

would keep to tne 
Would choose his poor lost Marian, like 

me best. 
And, though you stretched your arms, 

cry back and cling, 
As we do when God says it's time to die 
And bids us go up higher. Leave us, 

then ; 
We two are happy. Does he push me off? 
He's satisfied with me, as I with him,' 

' So soft to one, so hard to others ! Nay,' 
I cried, more angry that she melted me, 
' We make henceforth a cushion of our 

faults 
To sit and practise easy virtues on ? 
I thought a child was given to sanctify 
A woman, — set her in the sight of all 
The clear-eyed heavens, a chosen min- 
ister 
To do their basiness and lead spirits up 
The difficult blue heights. A woman 

lives. 
Not bettered, quickened toward the 

truth and good 
Through being a mother ? . . then she's 

none ! although 
She damps her baby's cheeks by kissing 

them. 
As we kill roses * 

' Kill ! O Christ,' she said. 
And turned her wild sad face from side 

to side 
With most despairing wonder iu it — 

• What, 
What have you in your souls against me 

then. 



430 



AURORA LEIGH. 



All of you ? am I wicked, do you think ? 
(5od knows me, trusts me with a child : 

but you, 
Vou think me really wicked ?' 

' Complaisant' 
I answered softly, * to a wrong you've 

done, 
Because of certain profits, — which is 

wrong 
Beyond the first wrong, Marian. When 

you left 
The pure place and the noble heart, to 

take 
The hand of a seducer' , . 

' Whom ? whose hand ? 
I took the hand of . . 

Springing up erect 
And lifting up the child at full arms' 

length. 
As if to bear him like an oriflamme 
Unconquerable to armies of reproach, — 
' By hint' she said, ' my child's head 

and its curls. 
By those blue eyes no woman born could 

dare 
A perjury on, I make my mother's oath. 
That if I left that Heart, to hghten it. 
The blood of mine was still, except for 

grief ! 
No cleaner maid than I was, took a step 
To a sadder end, — no matron-mother 

now 
Looks backward to her early maiden- 
hood 
Through chaster pulses. I .speak stead- 
ily : 
And if I lie so, . . if, being fouled in 

will 
And paltered with in soul by devil's 

lust, 
I dared to bid this angel take my part, . . 
Would God sit quiet, let us think, in 

heaven, 
Nor strike me dumb with thunder ? Yet 

I speak : 
He clears me therefore. What, 'se- 
duced' 's your word ? 
Do wolves seduce a wandering fawn in 

France? 
Do eagles, who have pinched a lamb 

with claws, 
Seduce it into carrion ? So with me. 
I was not ever, as you say, seduced. 
But simply, murdered.' 



There she paused, and sighed. 
With such a sigh as drops from agony 
To exhaustion, — sighing while she let 

the babe 
Slide down upon her bosom from her 

arms. 
And all her face's light fell after him, 
Like a torch quenched in falling 

Down she sank, 
And he sate upon the bedside with the 

child. 
But \, convicted, broken utterly. 
With woman's passion clung about her 

waist. 
And kissed her hair and eyes, — ' I have 

been wrong. 
Sweet Marian ' . . (weeping in a tender 

rage) 
' Sweet holy Marian ! And now. Ma- 
rian, now, 
I'll use your oath although my lips are 

hard. 
And by the child, my Marian, by the 

child, 
I'll swear his mother shall be innocent 
Before my conscience, as in the open 

Book 
Of Him who reads our judgment. In- 
nocent, 
My sister 1 let the night be ne'er so 

dark. 
The moon is surely somewhere in the 

sky : 
So surely is your whiteness to be foun 1 
Through all dark facts. But pardon, 

pardon me. 
And smile a little, Marian, — for the 

child. 
If not for me, my sister.' 

The poor lip 
Just motioned for the smile and let it 

S° • . 
And then, with scarce a stirring of the 

mouth. 
As if a statue spoke that could not 

breathe. 
But spoke on calm between its marble 

lips.- 
' I'm glad, I'm very glad you clear me 

so. 
I should be sorry that you set me down 
With harlots, or with even a better 

name 



AURORA LEIGH. 



431 



Which misbecomes his mother. *For 

the rest 
I am not on a level with your love. 
Nor ever was, you know, — but now am 

worse, 
Because that world of yours has dealt 

with me 
As when the hard sea bites and chews a 
, stone 
[And changes the first form of it. I've 

marked 
A shore of pebbles bitten to one shape 
From all the various life of madre- 
pores ; 
And so, that little stone, called Marian 

Erie, 
Picked up and dropped by you another 

friend. 
Was ground and tortured by the inces- 
sant sea 
And bruised from what she was, — 

changed I death's a change, 
And she, I said, was murdered ; Ma- 
rian's dead. 
What can you do with people when 

they are dead, 
But, if you are pious, sing a hymn and 

go. 
Or, if you are tender, heave a sigh and 

go. 
But go by all means, — and permit the 

grass 
Fo keep its green feud up 'twixt them 

and you ? 
rhen leave me, — let me rest. I'm 

dead, I say. 
A.nd if, to save the child from death as 

well, 
rhe mother in me has survived the 

rest, 
Why, that's God's miracle you must not 

tax, 
:'m not less dead for that : I'm nothing 

more 
But just a mother. Only for the child, 
'm warm, and cold, and hungry, and 

afraid, < 

\.nd smell the flowers a little, and see 

the sun, 
\.nd speak still, and am silent, — just for 

him ! 
pray you therefore to mistake me not, 
\.nd treat me haply as I were alive ; 
<"or though you ran a pin into my soul. 



I think it would not hurt or trouble me. 
Here's proof, dear lady, — in the mark- 
et-place 
But now, you promised me to say a 

word 
About . . a friend, who once, long years 

ago, 
Took God's place toward me, when He 

leans and loves 
And does not thunder, . . whom at last 

I left, 
As all of us leave God. You thought 

perhaps 
I seemed to care for hearing of that 

friend ? 
Now, judge me 1 we have sate here half 

an hour 
And talked together of the child and 

me. 
And I not asked as much as, ' What's 

the thing 
You had to tell me of the friend . . tlie 

friend ? ' 
He's sad, I think you said, — he's sick 

perhaps 1 
'Tis nought to Marian if he's sad or sick. 
Another would have crawled beside 

your foot 
And prayed your words out. Why, a 

beast, a dog, 
A starved cat, if he had fed it once with 

milk, 
Would show less hardness. But I'm 

dead, you see. 
And that explains it.' 

Poor, poor thing, she spoke 
And shook her head, as white and calm 

as frost 
Or days too cold for raining any more, 
But still with such a face, so much 

alive, 
I could not choose but take it on my 

arm 
And stroke the placid patience of its 

cheeks, — 
And told my story out, of Romney 

Leigh, 
How, having lost her, sought her, missed 

her still, 
He, broken-hearted for himself and her, 
Had drawn the curtains of the world 

awhile 
As if he had done with morning. There 

I stopped. 



43« 



AURORA LEIGH. 



For when she gasped, and pressed me 

with her eyes, 
' And now , , now is it witli him ? tell 

me now,' 
I felt the shame of compensated grief, 
And chose my words with scruple — 

slowly stepped 
Upon the slippery stones set here and 

there . 

Across the sliding water. ' Certainly 
As evening empties mornmg uilo night. 
Another morning ukes the evening up 
With healthful, providential inter- 
change ; r L > 
And though he thought still of her. — 

' Ve5, she knew 
She understood : she had supposed, in- 
deed. 
That, as one stops a hole upon a flute, 
At which a new note comes and shapes 

the tune, 
Excluding her would bring a worthier 

And, long ere this, that Lady Waldemar 
He loved so ' . . 

' Loved,' I surted,— ' loved her so ! 
Now tell me ' . . 

' I will tell you,' she replied : 
•But since we're taking oaths, you'll 

promise first 
That he in England, he, shall never 

learn 
In what a dreadful trap his creature 

here. 
Round whose unworthy neck he had 

meant to tie 
The honourable ribbon of his name. 
Fell unaware and came to butchery ; 
Because,— I know him,— as he ukes to 

heart 
The grief of every stranger, hes not 

like 
To banish mine as far as I could choose 
In wishing him most happy. Now he 

leaves 
To think of me, perverse, who went my 

way. 
Unkind, and left him,— but if once he 

knew . . 
Ah, then, the sharp nail of my cruel 

wrong 
Would fasten me forever in his sight, 
Like some poor curious bird, through 

each spread wing 



Nailed high up over a fierce hunter' 

fire. 
To spoil the dinner of all tenderer folkj 
Come in by chance. Nay, since you| 

Marian's dead, _ 1 

You shall not hang her up, but dig J 

hole 
And bury her in silence ! ring no bells'! 

I 
I answered gaily, though my wholj 

voice wept ; 
' We'll ring the joy-bells, not the fun<i 

ral -bells, 
Because we have her back, dead c 

alive.' I 

She never answered that, but shook hci 

head ; , r • 

Then low and calm, as one who, safe )| 

heaven. 
Shall tell a story of his lower life. 
Unmoved by shame or anger,— so sh, 

spoke. 
She told me she had loved upon h 

knees, . i.J 

As others pray, more perfectly absorbs 
In the act and inspiration. She felt h 
For just his uses, not her own at all. 
His stool, to sit on or put up his foot. 
His cup, to fill with wine or vinegar. 
Whichever drink might please hini 

the chance. 
For that should please her always : 1 

him write 
His name upon her . , it seemed natiira 
It was most precious, standing on r 

shelf, . ^ J 

To wait until he chose to lift his handj 
Well, well,- 1 saw her then, and mt 

have seen 
How bright her life went floating on h 

Like wicks the housewives send aflo 

on oil 
Which feeds them to a flame that lasj 

the night. 

To do good seemed so much his ba' 

ness. 
That, having done it, she was tain 

think, 
Must fill up his capacity for joy 
At first she never mooted with herselt 
If he was happy, since he made her 



AURORA LEIGH. 



433 



W if he loved her, being so much be- 
loved : 
Vho thinks of asking if the sun is light, 
)bserving that it lightens ? who's so 

bold, 
"o question God of His felicity ? 
till less. And thus she took for granted 

first, 
Vhat first of all she should have put to 

proof, 
ind sinned against him so, but only so. 
What could you hope,' she said, ' of 

such as she ? 
'ou take a kid you like, and turn it out 
n some fair garden ; though the crea- 
ture's fond 
ind gentle, it will leap upon the beds 
ind break your tulips, bite your tender 

trees ' 
'he wonder would be if such innocence 
poiled less. A garden is no place for 
kids,' 

k.nd, by degrees, when he who had 

chosen her, 
brought in his courteous and benignant 

firiends 
spend their goodness on her, which 

she took 

very gladly, as a part of his, — 

\y slow degrees it broke on her slow 

sense, 
'hat she too in that Eden of delight 
Vas out of place, as like the silly kid, 
ti\\\ did most mischief where she meant 

most love. 
: thought enough to make a woman 

mad. 
No beast in this but she may well go 

mad) 
'hat saying ' 1 am thine to love and use * 
lay blow the plague in her protesting 

breath 
["o the very man for whom she claims to 

die,— 
■"hat, clinging round his neck, she pulls 

him down < 

i.nd drowns him, — and that, lavishing 

1 her soul, 

ihe hales perdition on him, ' So, being 

mad,' 
•aid Marian . . 
. ' Ah~who stirred such thoughts, you 

askt 



Whose fault it was, that she should have 

such thoughts? 
None's fault, none's fault. The light 

comes, and we see : 
But if it were not truly for our eyes. 
There would be nothing seen, for ail the 

light ; 
And so with Marian. If she saw at last. 
The sense was in her, — Lady Waldemar 
Had spoken all in vain else.' 

' O my heart, 
O prophet in my heart,' I cried aloud, 
' Then Lady Waldemar spoke I' 

' ZJ/Vshe speak,' 
Mused Marian softly — * or did she only 

sign ? 
Or did she put a word into her face 
And look, and so impress you with the 

word ? 
Or leave it in the foldings of her gown. 
Like rosemary smells, a movement will 

shake out 
When no one's conscious 1 who shall say 

or guess 1 
One thmg alone was certain, — from the 

day 
The gracious lady paid a visit first. 
She, Marian, saw things different,— felt 

distrust 
Of all that sheltering roof of circum- 
stance 
Her hopes were building into with clay 

nests : 
Her heart was restless, pacing up and 

down 
And fluttering, like dumb creatures be- 
fore the storms, 
Not knowing wherefore she was ill at 

ease.' 
'And still the lady came,' said Marian 

Erie, 
' Much oftener than he knew it, Mister 

Leigh. 
She bade me never tell him she had 

come. 
She liked to love me better than he 

knew. 
So very kind was Lady Waldemar : 
And every time she brought with her 

more light. 
And every light made sorrow clearer . 

Well, 
Ah, well ! we cannot give her blame for 

that; 



434 



AURORA LEIGH. 



'T would be the same thing if an angel 

came, 
Whose right should prove our wrong. 

And every time 
The lady came, she looked more beau- 
tiful, 
And spoke more like a flute among green 

trees, 
Until at last, as one, whose heart being 

sad 
On liearing lovely music, suddenly 
Dissolves in weeping, I brake out in 

tears 
Before her . . asked her counsel . . ' had 

I erred 
' In being too happy ? would she set me 

straight ? 
' For she, being wise and good and born 

above 
'The flats I had never climbed from, 

could perceive 
' If such as I might grow upon the hills; 
' And whether such poor herb sufficed to 

grow 

• For Romncy Leigh to break his fast 

upon't, — 

• Or would he pine on such, or haply 

starve ?' 
She wrapt me in her gcneroas arms at 

once. 
And let me dream a moment how it 

feels 
To have a real mother, like some girls : 
But when I looked, her face was young- 
er . . ay. 
Youth's too bright not to be a little 

hard. 
And beauty keeps itself still uppermost. 
That's true ! — though Lady Waldemar 

was kind. 
She hurt me, hurt as if the morning-sun 
Should smite us on the eyelids when we 

sleep. 
And wake us up with headache. Ay, 

and soon 
Was light enou.h to make my heart 

ache too : 
She told me truths I asked for . . 'twas 

my fault . . 
'That Romney could not love me if he 

would, 
' As men call loving ; there are bloods 

that flow 
•Together like some rivers and not mix. 



' Through contraries of nature. He ii 

deed 
' Was set to wed me, to espouse my cla^j 
'Act out a rash opinion, — and, om 

wed, 
'So just a man and gentle could ml 

choose 
' But make my life as smooth as ma 

riage-ring, 
' Bespeak me mildly, keep me a chee: 

ful house, 
' With servants, brooches, all the flowe 

I liked. 
And pretty dresses, silk the whole yc> 

round ' . . 
At which I stopped her, — 'This for mi 

And now , 

' For him.' — She hesitated, — truth gre 

hard ; 
She owned, ' 'Twas plain a man lili 

Romney Leigh 
'Required a wife more level to himsel; 
' If day by day he had to bend h 

height 
'To pick up sympathies, opinioDj 

thoughts, 
' And interchange the common talk i 

life ( 

' Which helps a man to live as well : 

talk, 
' His days were heavily taxed. WK 

buys a staff 
' To fit the hand, that reaches but th 

knee 1 
' He'd feel it bitter to be forced to mi 
' The perfect joy of married suited jiaiii 
' Who bursting through the scparalir 

hedge 
' Of personal dues with that sweet cglai 

tine 
' Of equal love, keep saying, ' So ?t 

think, 
''It strikes us, — that's our fancy. "- 

When I asked 
If earnest will, devoted love, employe 
In youth like mine, would fail to rai; 

me up, 
As two strong arms will always raise 

child 
To a fruit hung overhead ? she sighe 

and sighed . . 
'That could not be,' she feared. ' Yr 

take a pink, 
' You dig about the roots and water it. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



435 



\nd so improve it to n garden-pink, 
3iit will not change it to a heliotrope, 
I'hc kind remains. And then, the 

harder truth — 
rhis Romney Leigh, so rash to leap a 

pale. 
So bold for conscience, quick for mar- 
tyrdom, 
Would suffer steadily and never flinch. 
But suffer surely and keenly, when his 

class 
rurned shoulder on him for a shameful 

match, ... 

\nd set him up as nine-pin m their 

talk. 
To bowl him down with jestmgs. — 

There, she paused ; 
Lnd when I used the pause in doubting 

that 
^''e wronged him after all m what we 

feared — 
Suppose such things should never 

touch him more 
In his high conscience (if the thing 

should be,) 
Than, when the queen sits in an upper 

room. 
The horses in the street can spatter 

her!'— ^ , J 

i. moment, hope came,— but the lady 

closed 
:he door and nicked the lock and shut 

it out, * 

)bserving wisely that, ' the tender 

heart 
Which made him over-soft to a lower 

class. 
Would scarcely fail to make him sensi- 
tive 
To a higher,— how they thought .ind 

what they felt. 

Alas,' alas,' said Marian, rocking slow 
rhe pretty baby who was near asleep, 
i'he eyelids creeping over the blue 

balls.— , ^ 

she made it clear, too clear— I saw the 

v/hole ! 
And yet who knows if I had seen my 

way 
straight out of it by looking, though 

'twas clear, 
Unless the genei>ous lady, 'ware of this. 
Had set her own house all a-fire for me. 



To light me forwards ? Leaning on my 

face 
Her heavy agate eyes which crushed 

my will. 
She told me tenderly, (as when men 

come 
To a bedside to tell people they must 

die) 
' She knew of knowledge, — ay, of 

knowledge knew, 
' That Romney Leigh had loved her for- 
merly : 
• And she loved him, she might say, 

now the chance 
' Was past . . but that, of course, he 

never guessed, — 
•For something came between them . . 

something thin 
' As a cobweb . . catching every fly of 

doubt 
« To hold it buzzing at the window-pane 
' And help to dim the daylight. Ah, 

man's pride 
' Or woman's— which is greatest ? most 

averse 
'To brushing cobwebs? Well, but she 

and he 
' Remained fast friends ; it seemed not 

more than so, 
' Because he had bound his hands and 

could not stir : 
' An honourable man, if somewhat 

rash ; 
' And she, not even for Romney, would 

she spill 
' A blot . . as little even as a tear . . 
' Upon his marriage-contract— not to 

gain 
' A better joy for two than came by 

that : 
' For, though I stood between her heart 

and heaven, 
'She loved me wholly." 

Did I laugh or curse ? 
I think I sate there silent, hearing all, 
Ay, hearing double,— Marian's tale, r.t 

once. 
And Romney's marriage-vow, ' Vllhecp 

to THEE,' 

Which means that woman-serpent. I.i 

it time 
For church now ? ^ 

• Lady Waldemar spoke more. 
Continued Marian, ' but as when a soul 



436 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Will pass out through the sweetness of 

a song 
Beyond it, voyaging the uphill road, — 
Even so mine wandered from the things 

I heard 
To those 1 sufTered. It was afterward 
I shaped the resolution to the act. 
For many hours we talked. What 

need to talk ? 
The fate was clear and dose ; it 

touched my eyes ; 
But still the generous lady tried to keep 
The case afloat, and would not let it go, 
And argued, struggled upon Marian's 

side, 
Which was not Romney's I though she 

little knew 
What ugly monster would take up tlic 

end, — 
What griping death within the drown- 
ing death 
Was ready to complete my sum of 

death/ 
I thought,— Perhaps he's sliding now 

the ring 
Upon that woman's finger. . 

She went on : 
Tlic lady, failing to prevail her way, 
Upgathered my torn wishes from the 

ground 
And pieced them with her strong bene- 
volence ; 
And, as I thoiight I could breathe freer 

air 
Away from England, going withoiit 

pause. 
Without farewell, — just breaking with 

a ierk 
The blossomed oflfshoetfrom my thorny 

life,— 
She promised kindly to provide the 

means. 
With instant parage to the colonies 
And full protection,' would commit me 

straight 

* To one who once had been her wait- 

ine-maid 

* And had the customs of the world, in- 

tent 

* On changing England for Australia 

* Herself to carry out her fortune so-' 
For which I thanked the Lady Walde- 

mar, 



As men upon their death-beds thank 

last friends 
Who lay the pillow straight ; it is not 

much, 
And yet 'tis all of which they are capa-^ 

ble. 
This lying smoothly in a bed to die. 
And so, 'twas fixed ; — and so, from day 

to day. 
The woman named came in to visit: 

me.' 



Just then, the girl stopped speaking,—' 

sate erect, 
And stared at me as if I had been a; 

ghost, 
(Perhaps I looked as white as anyj 

ghost) 
With large-eyed horror, ' Does Ood 

make,' she said, 
' All sorts of creatures really, do you 

think 1 
Or is it that the Devil slavers them 
So excellently, that we come to doubt 
Who's stronger. He who makes, or hei! 

who mars? 
I never liked the woman's face or voice 
Or ways : it made me blush to look at' 

her ; _ ' 

It made me tremble if she touched my I 

hand ; 
And when she spoke a fondling word ! 

1 shrank ' i 

As if one hated me who had power ta^i 

hurt ; 
And every time she came, my veins ran 

cold 
As somebody were walking on my 

grave. 
At la«*t 1 spoke to Lady Waldemar ; 
' Could such an one be good to trust V 

1 asked. 
Whereat the lady stroked my check and 

lattghed 
Her silver-laugh — (one must be born to 

laugh, 
To put such music in it) * Foolish girl, 
' Your scattered wits are gathering wool 

beyond 
'The sheep-walk reaches I— leave the 

thing to me ' 
And therefore, half in trust, and half in 

ttcorn 
That I had heart still for another fear 



AURORA LEIGH. 



437 



n such a safe despair, I left the thing. 
I'he rest is short. 1 was obedient : 
wrote my letter which delivered /tim 
From Marian to his own prosperities, 
\nd followed that bacl guide. The 

lady ? — hush, 
[ never blame the lady. Ladies who 
sit high, however willing to look down. 
Will scarce see lower than their dainty 

feet : 

And Lady Waldemar saw less than I, 
With what a Devil's daughter I went 

forth 

Along the swine's road, down the preci- 
pice, 
[n such a curl of hell-foam caught and 

choked, 
No shriek of soul in anguish could pierce 

through 
To fetch some help. They say there's 

help in heaven 
iFor all such cries. But if one cries from 
I hell ... 
What then ?— the heavens are deaf upon 

that side. 
,' A woman . . hear me,— let me make it 

plain, — 
[A woman . . not a momter . . both her 

breasts 
Made right to suckle babes . . she took 

me off 
A woman also, voung and ignorant 
And heavy with my grief, my two poor 

eyes 
Near washed away with weeping, till 

the trees, 
The blessed unaccustomed trees and 

fields 
Ran either side the train like stranger 

dogs 
Unworthy of any notice,— took me off. 
So dull, so blind, so only half alive. 
Not seeing by what road, nor by what 

ship. 
Nor toward what place, nor to what end 
i of all. 

Men carry a corpse thus, — past the door- 
way, past 
llTie garden-gate, the children's play- 
I ground, up 
The green lane,— then they leave it in 

the pit. 
To sleep and find corruption, check to 

cheek 



With him who stinks since Friday. 

' But suppose : 
To go down with one's soul into the 

grave. 
To go down half dead, half alive, I say. 
And wake up with corruption, . . cheek 

to cheek 
With him who stinks since Friday I 

There it is. 
And that's the horror oft. Miss Leigh. 

' You feel ? 
You understand ?— no, do not look at 

me. 
But understand. The blank, blind, 

v/eary way 
Which led . . where'er it led . . away at 

least ; 
The shifted ship . . to Sydney or to 

France, 
Still bound, wherever else, to another 

land ; 
The swooning sickness on the dismal 

sea. 
The foreign shore, the shameful house, 

the night. 
The feeble blood, the heavy-headed 

grief, . . . 
No need to bring their damnable drug- 
ged cup. 
And yet they brought it. Hell's so 

prodigal 
Of devil's gifts . . . hunts liberally in 



packs, 
Ifk 



Will kill no poor small creature of the 

wilds 
But fifty red wide throats must smoke 

at it. 
As HIS at me . . when waking up at 

last . . 
I told you that I waked up in the grave. 

'Enough sol— it is plain enough so. 

True, 
We wretches cannot tell out all our 

wrong 
Without offence to decent happy folk. 
I know th.-it we must scrupulously hint 
With half-words, delicate reserves, the 

thing 
Which no one scrupled we should feel 

in full. 
Let pas* the tmt, then ; only leave my 

oath 
Upon this (peeping child — man's violence 



438 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Not man's seduction, made me ■what I 

am. 
As lost as . . I told hitn I should be lost: 
When mothers fail us, can we help our- 
selves ? 
That's fatal ! — And you call it being 

lost, 
That down came next day's noon and 

caught me there 
Half gibbering and half raving on the 

floor, 
And wondering what had happened up 

in heaven, 
That suns should dare to shine when 

God himself 
Was certainly abolished. 

' I was mad. 
How many weeks, I know not, — many 

weeks. 
I think they let me go, when I was mad. 
They feared my eyes and loosed me, as 

boys might 
A mad dog which they had tortured. 

Up and down 
I went by road and village, over tracts 
Of open foreign country, large and 

strange, 
Crossed everywhere by long thin pop- 
lar-lines 
Like fingers of some ghastly skeleton 

Hand 
Through sunlight and through moon- 
light evermore 
Pushed out from hell itself to pluck me 

back. 
And resolute to get me, slow and sure ; 
While every roadside Christ upon his 

cross 
Hung reddening through his gory 

wounds at me. 
And shook his nails in anger and came 

down 
To follow a mile after, wading up 
The low vines and green wheat, crying 

' Take the girl ! 
'She's none of mine from henceforth.' 

Then I knew 
(But this is somewhat dimmer than the 

rest) 
The charitable peasants gave me bread 
And leave to sleep in straw : and twice 

they tied, 
^t parting, Mary's image round my 

neck- 



How heavy it .seemed I as heavy as a 

stone ; 
A woman has been strangled with less 

weight : 
I threw it In a ditch to keep it clean 
And ease my breath a little, when none 

looked ; 
I did not need such safeguards : — brutal 

men 
Stopped short. Miss Leigh, in insult, 

when they had seen 
My face, — I must have had an awful 

look. 
And so I lived : the weeks passed on, 

— I lived. 
'Twas living my old tramp-hfe o'er 

again, 
But, this time, in a dream, and himted 

round 
By some prodigious Dream-fear at my 

back. 
Which ended yet : my brain cleared 

presently 
And'there I sate, one evening, by the 

road, 
L Marian Erie, myself, alone, undone. 
Facing a sunset low upon the flats 
As if It were the finish of all time. 
The great red stone upon my sepulchre, 
Which angels were too weak to roll 

away. 



SEVENTH BOOK. 

The woman's motive? shall we daub 

ourselves 
With finding roots for nettles? 'tis soft 

clay 
And easily explored. She had the 

means. 
The monies, by the lady's liberal grace, 
In trust for that Australian scheme 

and me. 
Which so, that she might clutch with 

both her hands 
And chink to her naughty uses undis- 
turbed. 
She served me (after all It was not 

strange ; 
'Twas only what my mother would 

have done) 



AURORA LEIGH. 
A. motherly, right damnable good turn 



439 



Well, after. There arc nettles every- 
where, 

5ut smooth green grasses are more com- 
mon still ; 

.'he blue of heaven is larger than the 
cloud ; 

i. miller's wife at Clichy took me in 

Lnd spent her pity on rile,— made me 
calm 

Lnd merely very reasonably sad. 

he found me a servant's place in Paris, 
where 

tried to take a cast-off life again, 

und stood as quiet as a beaten ass 

VI lo. having fallen through overloads, 
stands up 

b let them charge him with another 
pack. 

. few months, so. My mistress, young 

and light, 
Vas easy with me, less for kindness 

than 
l^cause she led, herself, an easy time 
Jetwixt her lover and her looking- 
glass, 
carce knowing which way she was 

praised the most, 
he felt so pretty and so pleased all day 
he could not take the trouble to be 

cross, 
ut sometimes, as I stooped to tie her 

shoe, • 

*^ould tap me softly with her slender 

foot 
till restless with the last night's danc- 

mg in't, 
nd say. ' Fie, pale-face ! are you En- 
glish girls 
All grave and silent* mass-book still, 

and Lent ? 
-A-nd first- communion pallor on your 

cheeks, ^ 

Worn past the time for't ? little fool, 

be gay ! ' 
,t which she vanished, like a fairy, 

through 
gap of silver laughter. 

' Came an hour 
/hen all went otherwise She did not 

speak. 



But clenched her brows, and clipped mc 

with her eyes 
As if a viper, with a pair of tongs. 
Too far for any touch, yet near enough 
To view the writhing creature, — then at 

last, 
' Stand still there, in the holy Virgin's 

name, 
' Thou Marian ; thou'rt no reputable 

girl, 
' Although sufficient dull for twenty 

saints ! 
* I think thou mock'st me and my 

house,' 
' Confess thou'lt be a mother in a month, 
' Thou mask of saintshlp.' 

' Could I answer her ? 
The light broke in so : it meant that 

then, that ? 
I had not thought of that, in all my 

thoughts. 
Through all the cold, numb aching of 

my brow. 
Through all the heaving of impatient 

life 
Which threw me on death at intervals, 

through all 
The up break of the fountains of my 

heart 
The rains had swelled too large : it 

could mean that ? 
Did God make mothers out of victims, 

then. 
And set such pure amens to hideous 

deeds ? 
Why not: ? He overblows an ugly grave 
With violets which blossom in the 

spring. 
And / could be a mother in a month ! 
I hope it was not wicked to be glad. 
I lifted up my voice and wept, and 

laughed, 
To heaven, not her, until It tore mv 

throat. 
' Confess, confess !' what was there to 

con fess. 
Except man's cruelty, except my wrong ? 
Except this anguish, or this ecstasy ? 
This shame or glory ? The light woman 

there 
Was small to take It in : an acorn-cup 
Would take the sea in sooner. 

" Good,' she cried ; 



440 



AURORA LEIGH. 



- Unmarried and a mother, and she 
laughs ! 

• These unchaste girls are always impu- 

dent. 

• Get out. intriguer ? leave my house and 

trot : 
'I wonder you should look me in the 

face, 
' With such a filthy secret.' 

' Then I rolled 
My scanty bundle up and went my way. 
Washed white with weeping, shudder- 
ing head and foot 
With blind hysteric passion, staggering 
forth , . 

Beyond those doors. 'Twas natural of 

course 
She should not ask me where I meant to 

sleep : , , , 

I might sleep well beneath the heavy 
Seine, , , , , • , 

Like others of my sort ; the bed was laid 
For us. But any woman, womanly. 
Had thought of him who should be in a 

month, . 

The sinless babe that should be m a 

month, 
And if by chance he might be warmer 

housed . 

Than underneath such dreary, dripping 
eaves.' 

1 broke on Marian there. 'Yet she 
herself, 

A wife, I think, had scandals of her own, 

A lover not her husband.' 

' Ay,' she said, 

• But gold and meal are measured other- 
wise ; J TvT • 

I learnt so much at school,' said Marian 
Erie. 

' O crooked world,' I cried, ' ridiculous 
If not so lamentable ! It's the way 
With these light women of a thrifty 

vice. 
My Marian,— always hard upon the rent 
In any sister's virtue ! while they keep 
Their own so darned and patched with 

perfidy, 
That, though a rag itself, it looks as well 
Across a street, in balcony or coach. 
As any perfect stuff might. For my 

part. 



I'd rather take the wind-side of tho 
stews 

Than touch such women with my finger- 
end ! „ , 1 • 

They top the poor street- walker by then 



2y to 
lie. 



And look the better for being so mucl" 

wor.se : 
The devil's most devilish when respecta 

ble. 
But you, dear, and your story. 

' All the rest 
Is here,' she said, and signed upon th 

child. 
' I found a mistress-sempstress who wa 

kind 
And let me sew in peace among he 

And what was better than to draw th 

threads . 

All day and half the night for him anc 

him? , ^ ,. 

And so 1 lived for him, and so he lives. 
And so I know, by this time, God live 

too.' 
She smiled beyond the sun and ende 

so, 1 u 1 

And all my soul rose up to take he 

part 
Against the world's successes, virtue:( 

fames. . ' 

' Come with me, sweetest sister, I re 

' And sit within my house, and do m 

good 
From henceforth, thou and thme ! y 

are my own 
From henceforth. I am lonely in th 

world. 
And thou art lonely, and the child 

half 
An orphan. Come, — and hencefor 

thou and 1 • r ■ 

Being still together will not miss a fnen 
Nor he a father, since two mothers shf 
Make that up to him. I am journey n 

south. 
And in my Tuscan home I'll find a mcl 
And set thee there, my saint, the chi 

and thee, 
And burn the lights of love before tl 

face. 
And ever at thy sweet look cross m 
self 



AURORA LEIGH. 



441 



From mixing with the world's prosperi- 
ties ; 
That so, in gravity and holy calm. 
We two may live on toward the truer 
life.' 

She looked me in the face and answered 

not. 
Nor signed she was unworthy, nor gave 

thanks. 
But took the sleeping child and held it 

out 
To meet my kiss, as if requiting me 
And trusting me at once. And thus at 

once, 
I carried him and her to where I lived ; 
She's there now, in the little room, 

asleep, 
I hear the soft child-breathing through 

the door ; 
And all three of us, at to-morrow's 

break. 
Pass onward, homeward, to our Italy. 
Oh, Romney Leigh, I have your debts 

to pay. 
And I'll be just and pay them. 

But yourself I 
To pay your debts is scarcely difficult ; 
To buy your life is nearly impossible. 
Being sold away to Lamia. My head 

aches ; 
I cannot see my road along this dark ; 
Nor can I creep and grope, as fits the 

dark, 
For these foot-catching robes of woman- 
hood : 
A man might walk a little . . but I ! — 

He loves 
The Lamia-woman, — and 1, write to 

him 
What stops his marriage, and destroys 

his peace, — 
Or what perhaps shall simply trouble 

him. 
Until she only need to touch his sleeve 
With just a finger's tremulous^ white 
I flame, 

I Saying, ' Ah, — Aurora Leigh ! a pretty 

tale, 
' ' A very pretty poet ! I can guess 
] ' The motive,' — then, to catch his eyes in 
] hers, 

And vow she does not wonder, — and 

they two 



To break in laughter as the sea along 

A melancholy co^st, and float up higher. 

In such a laugh, their fatal weeds of 
love ! 

Ay, fatal, ay. And who shall .nnswcr 
me 

Fate has not hurried tides ; and if to- 
night 

My letter would not be a night too late, 

An arrow shot into a man that's dead. 

To prove a vain intention ; Would I 
show 

The new wife vile, to make the husband 
mad ? 

No, Lamia ! shut the shutters, bar the 
doors 

From every glimmer on thy serpent- 
skin ! 

I will not let thy hideous secret out 

To agonise the man 1 love — I mean 

The friend I love . . as friends love. 

It is strange. 

To-day while Marion told her story like 

To absorb most listeners, how 1 listened 
chief 

To a voice not hers, nor yet that ene- 
my's. 

Nor God's in wrath, . . but one that 
mixed with mine 

Long years ago, among the garden- 
trees, 

And said to tne, to 7>te, too, ' Be my 
wife, 

Aurora.' It is strange with what a 
swell 

Yearn ing passion, as a snow of ghosts 

Might beat agamst the impervious doors 
of heaven, 

I thought, 'Now, if I had been a wo- 
man, such 

As God made women, to save men by 
love, — 

By just my love I might have saved 
this n^an. 

And made a nobler poem for the world 

Than all I have failed in.' But I failed 
besides 

In this ; and now he's lost ! through me 
alone ! 

And, by my only fault, his empty house 

Sucks in, at this same hour, a wind from 
hell 

To keep his hearth cold, make his case- 
ments creak 



443 



AURORA LET Gil. 



Forever to the tune of plague and sin — 

O Rorr.ney, O my Koniney, O my 
friend ! 

My cousin and friend ! my helper, when 
1 would. 

My love, that might be ! mine ! 

Why, how one weeps 

When one's too weary! Were a wit- 
ness by. 

He'd say some folly . . that I loved the 
man. 

Who knows ? . . and make me lauglx 
again for scorn. 

At strongest, women are as weak in 
flesh, 

As men, at weakest, vilest, are in soul : 

So, hard for women to keep pace with 
men ! 

As well give up at once, sit down at 
once. 

And weep as I do. Tears, tears I why 
we weep ? 

'Tis worth inquiry? — ^That we've shamed 
a life. 

Or lost a love, or missed a world, per- 
haps ? 

By no means. Simply, that we've 
walked too far, 

Or talked too much, or felt the wind i' 
the east, — 

And so we weep, as if both body and 
soul 

Broke up in water — this way. 

Poor mixed rags 

Forsooth we're made of, like those 
other dolls 

That lean with pretty faces into fairs. 

It seems as if I had a man in me, 

Despising such a woman. 

Yet indeed. 

To see a wrong or suffering moves us all 

To undo it, though wc should undo our- 
selves ; 

Ay, all the more, that we undo our- 
selves ; 

That's womanly, past doubt, and not ill- 
moved. 

A natural movement therefore, on my 
part. 

To fill the chair up of my cousin's wife. 

And save him from a devil's company ! 

We're all so, — made so, — 'tis our wo- 
man's trade 

To suffer torment for another's ease. 



The world's male chivalry has perisTied 

out, 
But women are knight-errant to the 

last ; 
And if Cervantes had been Shakes-' 

peare too. 
He had made his Don a Donna. 

So it clear.;. 
And so we rain our skies blue. 

Put away 
This weakness. If, as I have just now 

said, 
A man's within me, — let him act him- 
self, 
Ignormg the poor conscious trouble of 

blood. 
That's called the woman merely. I will 

write 
Plain words to England. — if too late, too 

late. 
If ill-accounted, then accounted ill ; 
We'll trust the heavens with something. 

' Dear Lord Howe 
You'll find a story on another leaf 
Of Marion Erie, — what noble friend of 

yours 
She trusted once, through what flagi- 
tious means 
To what disastrous ends ; — tlie story's 

true. 
I found her wandering on the Paris 

quays. 
A babe upon her breast, — unnatural 
Unseasonable outcast on such snow 
Unthawcd to this time. I will tax in this 
Your friend.ship, friend, — if that con- 
victed She 
Be not his wife yet, to denounce the 

facts 
To himself, — but, otherwise, to let them 

pass 
On tip-toe like escaping murderers, 
And tell my cousin merely — Marian 

lives. 
Is found, and finds her home with such 

a friend. 
Myself, Aurora. Which good news, 

' She's found,' 
Will help to make him merry in his love: 
I send it, tell him, for my marriage gift. 
As good as orange water for the nerves. 
Or perfumed gloves for headaches, — 
though aware 



AURORA LEIGH. 



*rna< J.e, except of love, is scarcely sick: 
I mean the new love this time, . . since 

last year. 
Such quick forgetting on the part of 

men ! 
Is any shrewder trick upon the cards 
To enrich them ? pray uistruct me how 

'tis done. 
First, clubs, — and while you look at 

clubs, 'tis spades ; 
That's prodigy. The lightning strikes a 

man. 
And when we think to find him dead 

and charred . . 
Why, there he is on a sudden, playing 

pipes 
Beneath the .splintered elm-tree ! Crime 

and shame 
And all their hoggery trample your 

smooth world. 
Nor leave more foot-marks than Apollo's 

kine. 
Whose hoofs were muffled by the thiev- 
ing god 
In tamarisk-leaves and myrtle. I'm so 

sad. 
So weary and sad to-night, I'm some- 
what sour, — 
Forgive me. To be blue and shrew at 

once. 
Exceeds all toleration except yours ; 
But yours, I know, is infinite. Fare- 
well. 
To-morrow we take train for Italy. 
Speak gently of me to your gracious 

wife. 
As one, however far, shall yet be near 
In loving wishes to your house.' 

I sign. 
And now I loose my heart upon a page. 
This— 

' Lady Waldemar, I'm very glad 
I never liked you ; which you knew so 

well 
You spared me, in your turn, to like me 

much. <• 

Your liking surely had done worse for 

nie 
Thau lias your loathing, though the last 

appears 
Sufficienily unscrupulous to hurt, 
And not afraid of judgment. Now, 

there's space 
Bjtween our faces, — I stand off, as if 



I judged a stranger's portrait and pro- 
nounced 
Inditferently the type was good or bad : 
What matter to me that the lines are 

false, 
I ask you ? Did I ever ink my lips 
By drawing your name through them as 

a friend's. 
Or touch your hands as lovers do ? 

thank God 
I never did : and, since you're proved 

so vile. 
Ay, vile, I say, — we'll show it presently, 
I'm not obliged to nurse my friend in 

you. 
Or wash out my own blots, in counting 

yours. 
Or even excase myself to honest souls 
Who seek to touch my lip or cla.sp my 

palm, — 
' Alas, but Lady Waldemar came first !' 
'Tis true, by this time you may near me 

so 
That you're my cousin's wife. You've 

gambled deep 
As Lucifer, and won the morning-star 
In that case, — and the noble house of 

Leigh 
Must henceforth with its good roof shel- 
ter you : 
I cannot speak and burn you up between 
Those rafters, I who am born a Leigh, — 

nor speak 
And pierce your breast through Rom- 

ney's, I who live 
His friend and cousin 1 — so, you're safe. 

You two 
Mast grow together like the tares and 

wheat 
Till God's great fire. — But make the 

best of time 

' And hide this letter ! let it speak no 

more 
Than I shall, how you tricked poor 

Marian Erie, 
And set her own love digging her own 

grave 
Within her green hope's pretty garden - 

ground ; 
Ay, sent her forth with some one of 

your sort 
To a wicked house In France, — from 

which she fled 



444 



AURORA LEIGH. 



With curses in her eyes and cars and 
throat, 

Her whole soul choked with curses, — 
mad in short, 

And madly scouring up and down for 
weeks 

The foreign hedgeless country, lone and 
lost,— 

So innocent, male-fiends might slink 
within 

Remote hell-corners, seeing her so de- 
filed. 

' ])ut you, — you are a woman and mor-: 

bold. 
'I'o do you justice, you'd not shrink to 

face . . 
We'll say the unfledged life in the other 

room. 
Which, treading down God's corn, you 

trod in sight 
Of all the dogs, in reach of all the 

guns, — 
Ay, Marian's babe, her poor luifathered 

child. 
Her yearling babe ! — you'd face him 

when he wakes 
And opens up his wonderful blue eyes : 
You'd meet them and not wink perhaps, 

nor fear 
God's trium-,jh in them and supreme 

revenge, 
When righting His creation's balance- 
scale 
(You pulled as low as Tophet) to the 

top 
Of most celestial innocence. For me 
Who am not as bold, I own those infant 

eyes 
Have set me praying. 

' Wbile they look at heaven, 
No need of protestation in my words 
Against the place you've made them ! 

let them look ! 
They'll do your business with the heav- 
ens, be sure : 
I spare you commoa curses. 

• Ponder this. 
If haply you're the wife of Romney 

Leigh, 
(For which inheritance beyond your 

birth 
You sold that poisonous porridge called 

j'our soul) 



I charge you be his faithful and true 

wife ! 
Keep warm his hearth and clean his 

board, and, when 
He speaks, be quick with your obedi- 
ence ; 
Still grind your paltry wants and low 

desires 
To dust beneath his heel ; though even 

thus. 
The ground must hurt him, — it was writ 

of old. 
' Ye shall not yoke together ox and 

ass,' 
The nobler and ignobler. Ay, but yoii 
Shall do your part as well as sucll ill 

things 
Can do aught good. You shall not ve.\ 

him, — mark. 
You shall not vex him . . jar him when 

he's sad. 
Or cross him when he's eager. Undef- 

stand 
To trick him with apparent sympathies. 
Nor let him see thee in the face too 

near 
And unlearn thy sweet seeming. Pay 

the price 
Of lies, by being constrained to lie on 

still : 
'Tis easy for thy sort : a million more 
Will scarcely damn thee deeper. 

' Doing which 
You are very safe from Marian and my- 
self ; 
We'll breathe as softly as the infant 

here. 
And stir no dangerous embers. Fail a 

point, 
And show our Romney wounded, ill- 
content. 
Tormented in his home, . . we open 

mouth. 
And such a noise will follow the last 

trump's 
Will scarcely seem more dreadful, even 

to you ; 
You'll have no pipers after : Romnev 

will 
(I know him) push you forth .is none of 

his. 
All other men declaring it well done ; 
While women, even the worst, your 

like, will draw 



AURORA LEIGH. 



445 



Ihcir skirts back, not to brush you in 

the street ; 
And so 1 warn you. I'm . . . Aurora 

Leigh.' 

The letter written, I feh satisfied. 

The ashes smouldering in me, were 

thrown out , , , • 

By handfuls from mc : I had writ my 

heart , , 

And wept my tears, and now was cool 

and calm ; . • u 

And, going straightway to the neigh- 
bouring room, r 1. u J 
I lifted up the curtains of the bed 
Where Marian Erie, the babe upon her 

arm, , ,., 

Both faces leaned together like a pair 
Of folded innocences, self-complete. 
Each smiling from the other, smiled 

and slept. , 

There seemed no sm, no shame, no 

wrath, no grief , .u .. 

I felt she too had spoken words that 

I But softer certainly, and said to God, 
• Who laughs in heaven perhaps that such 

i as I y y ,T\ 

Should make ado for such as she.— Ue- 
filcd' , ,10 

I wrote? 'defiled' I thought her f 
Stoop, , , , 

Stoop lower, Auroral get the angels 
leave 

To creep in somewhere, humbly, on 
your knees. 

Within this round of sequestration 
white , » r 1 

In which they have wrapt earth s found- 
lings, heaven's elect. 

The next day we took train to Italy 
Aud fled on southward in the roar ot 

steam. ^ , 

The marriage-bells of Romney must be 

To sound so clear through all. I was 

not well ; , • i-i 

And truly, though the truth is like a 

I coifd not choose but fancy, half the 

I stood alone i' the belfry, fifty bells 
Of naked iron, mad with merriment. 



(As one who laughs and cannot stop 

himself) 
AH clanking at me, in me. over me. 
Until I shrieked a shriek I could not 
hear, ... 

And swooned with noise,— but still, 

along my swoon. 
Was 'ware the baffled changes back- 
ward rang, 
Prepared, at each emerging sense, to 

beat , ., 

And crash It out with clangour. I was 

weak ; , 

I struggled for the posture of tny soul 
In upright consciousness of place and 

time, , . , , 

But evermore, 'twixt waking and asleep. 
Slipped somehow, staggered, caught at 

Marian's eyes 
A moment, (it is very good for strength 
To know that some one needs you to be 
strong) , ,, , \e 

And so recovered what I called myselt, 
For that time. 

I just knew it when we swept 
Above the old roof of Dijon. Lyons 

A spirmto the night, half trodden out 
Unseen. But presently the winding 

Rhone . , , 1 

Washed out the moonlight large along 

his banks, . , ,. 

Which strained their yielding curves 

out clear and clean 
To hold it,— shadow of town and castle 

blurred 
Upon the hurrying river. Such an air 
Blew thence upon the forehead,— halt an 

And^half a water.— that I leaned and 
looked ; », . -i j » 

Then, turning back on Marian, smiled to 

That she looked only on her child, who 
slept. 

His face toward the moon too. 

So we passed 

The liberal open country and the close. 

And shot through tunnels, like a light- 
ning-wedge 

By great Thor-hammers driven through 
the rock, , , . 

Which, quivering through the intestine 
blackness, splits, 



446 



AURORA LEIGIJ. 



And lets it in at once : the train swept 
in 

Athrob with effort, trembling with re- 
solve, 

The fierce denouncing whistle wailing 
on 

And dying off smothered in the shud- 
dering dark, 

While we, self-awed, drew troubled 
breath, oppressed 

As other Titans underneath the pile 

And nightmare of the mountains. Out, 
at last. 

To catch the dawn afloat upon the 
land! 

— Hills, slung forth broadly and gauntly 
everywhere. 

Not crampt in their foundations, pushing 
wide 

Rich outspreads of the vineyards and 
the corn, 

(As if they entertained i' the name of 
France) 

While, down their straining sides, 
streamed manifest 

A soil as red Jis Charlemagne's knightly 
blood. 

To consecrate the verdure. Some one 
said 

' Mai-seilles ! ' And lo, the city of Mar- 
seilles, 

With all her ships behind her, and be- 
yond. 

The scimitar of ever-shining sea 

For right-hand use, bared blue against 
the sky 1 

That night we spent between the purple 

heaven 
And purple water : I think Marian 

slept ; 
But I, as a dog a-watch for his master's 

foot. 
Who cannot sleep or eat before he 

hears, 
I sate upon the deck and watched the 

night, 
And listened through the stars for Italy. 
Those marriage-bells I spoke of, sounded 

far. 
As some child's go-cart in the street be- 
neath 
To a dying man who Avill not pass the 

day. 



And knows it, holding by a hand he 
loves, 

I too sate quiet, satisfied with death, 

Sate silent : I could hear my own soul 
speak. 

And had my friend, — for Nature comes 
sometimes 

And says, ' I am ambassador for God.' 

I felt the wind soft from the land of 
souls ; 

The old miraculous mountains heaved in 
sight. 

One straining past another along the 
shore. 

The way of grand dull Odyssean ghosts 

Athirst to drink the cool blue wine of 
seas 

And stare on voyagers. Peak pushing 
peak 

They stood : I watched beyond that 
Tyrian belt 

Of intense sea betwixt ihem and the 
ship, 

Down all their sides the misty olive- 
woods 

Dissolving in the weak congenial moon. 

And still disclosing some brown convent- 
tower 

That seems as if it grew from some 
brown rock. 

Or many a little lighted village, dropt 

Like a fallen star, upon so high a point, 

You wonder what can keep it in its 
place 

Prom sliding headlong with the water- 
falls 

Which powder all the myrtle and orange 
groves 

With spray of silver. Thius my Italy 

Was stealing on us. Genoa broke with 
day ; 

The Doria's long pale palace striking 

0)lt, 

From green hills in advance of the white 

town, 
A marble finger dominant to ships. 
Seen glimmering through the uncertain 

gray of dawn. 

And then I did not think, ' my Italy,' 
I thought, ' my father 1' O my father's 

house. 
Without his presence ! — Places are too 

much 



AURORA LEIGH, 



447 



Or else too little, for immortal man ; 

Too little, when love's May o'ergrovvs 
the ground, — 

Too much, when that luxuriant robe of 
green 

Is rustling to our ankles in dead leaves. 

'Tis only good to be or here or there, 

Because we had a dream on such a stone, 

Or this or that, — but, once being wholly 
waked. 

And come back to the stone without a 
dream, 

We trip upon't, — alas I and hurt our- 
selves ; 

Or else it falls on us and grinds us flat. 

The heaviest grave-stone on this bury- 
ing earth. 

— But while I stood and mused, a quiet 
touch 

Fell light upon my arm, and, turning 
round, 

A pair of moistened eyes convicted 
mine. 

• What, Marian 1 is the babe astir so 

soon ?' 
' He sleeps,' she answered ; ' I have 

crept up thrice. 
And seen you sitting, standing, still at 

watch. 
I thought it did you good till now, but 

now' ... 

• But now,' I said, 'you leave the child 

alone.' 

' KnAyou^re alone,' she answered, — and 
she looked 

As if I too were something. Sweet the 
help 

Of one we have helped ! Thanks, Ma- 
rian, for such help. 

I found a house at Florence on the hill 
Of Bellosguardo. 'Tis a tower that 

keeps 
A. post of double-observation o'er 
The valley of Arno (holding as a hand 
The outspread city) straight towj^rd Fie- 

sole 
And Mount Morello and the setting sun, 
The Vallombrosan mountains opposite, 
Which sunrise fills as full as crystal cups 
Turned red to the brim because their 

wine was red. 
No sun could die nor yet be born unseen 
By dwellers at my villa : morn and eve 



Were magnified before us in the pure 
Illimitable space and pause of sky, 
Intense as angels' garments blanched 

with God, 
Less blue and radiant. From the outer 

wall 
Of the garden, drops the mystic floating 

gray 
Of olive-trees, (with interruptions green 
From maize and vine) until 'tis caught 

and torn 
Upon the abrupt black line of cypresses 
Which signs the way to Florence. Beau- 
tiful 
The city lies along the ample vale,' 
Cathedral, tower and palace, piazza and 

street. 
The river trailing like a silver cord 
Through all, and curling loosely, both 

before 
And after, over the broad stretch of land 
Sown whitely up and down its opposite 

slopes 
With farm and villas. 

Many weeks had passed, 
No word was granted. — Last, a letter 

came 
From Vincent Carrington : — ' My dear 

Miss Leigh, 
You've been as silent as a poet should. 
When any other man is sure to speak. 
If sick, if vexed, if dumb, a silver-piece 
Will split a man's tongue, — straight he 

speaks and says, 
' Received that cheque.' But you 1 . . 

I send you funds 
To Paris, and you make no sign at all. 
Remember I'm responsible and wait 
A sign of you. Miss Leigh. 

' Meantime your book 
Is eloquent as if you were not dumb ; 
And common critics, ordinarily deaf 
To such fine meanings, and, like deaf 

men, loth 
To seena deaf, answering chance-wise, 

yes or no, 
'It must be,' or 'it must not,' (most 

pronounced 
When least convinced) pronounced for 

once aright : 
You'd think they really heard, — and so 

they do . . 
The bu?r of three or four who really 

hear 



448 



AURORA LFJGH. 



And praise your book aright ; Fame's 

smallest trump 
Is a great ear-trumpet for the deaf as 

posts, 
No other being effective. Fear not, 

friend ; 
We think here you have written a good 

book, 
And you, a woman ! It was in you — yes, 
I felt 'twas in you : yet I doubted half 
If that od-force of German Reichen- 

bach 
Which still from female finger-tips burns 

blue. 
Could strike out as our masculine white 

heats. 
To quicken a man. Forgive me. All 

my heart 
Is quick with yours since, just a fortnight 

since, 
I read your book and loved it. 

' Will you love 
My wife, too ? Here's my secret I might 

keep 
A month more from you ! but I yield it 

up 
Because I know you'll write the sooner 

for't. 
Most women (of your height even) 

counting love 
Life's only seriou-; business. Who's my 

wife 
That shall be in a month ? you ask ? nor 

guess 1 
Remember what a pair of topaz eyes 
You once detected, turned against the 

wall. 
That morning in my London painting- 
room ; 
The face half-sketched, and slurred ; 

the eyes alone ! 
But you . . you caught them up with 

yours, and said 
'Kate Ward's eyes, surely.* — Now, I 

own the truth, 
I had thrown them there to keep them 

safe from Jove ; 
They would so naughtily find out their 

way 
To both the heads of both my Danaes, 
Where just it made me mad to look at 

them. 
Such eyes ! I could not paint or think of 
eyes 



I But those, — .nnd so I flung them into 

paint 
And turned them to the wall's care. 

Ay, but now 
I've let them out, my Kate's : I'tc 

painted her, 
(I'll change my style, and leave mytho- 
logies) 
The whole sweet face ; it looks upon 

my soul 
Like a face on water, to beget itself, 
A half-length portrait.in a hanging cloak 
Like one you wore once ; 'tis a little 

frayed ; 
I pressed too for the nude harmonious 

arm — 

But she . . she'd have her way, and have 

her cloak ; 
She said she could be like you only so, 
And would not miss the fortune. Ah, 

my friend. 
You'll write and say she shall not miss 

your love 
Through meeting mine ? in faith, she 

would not change : 
She has your books by heart more than 

my words. 
And quotes you up against me till I'm 

pushed 
Where, three months since, her eyes 

were : nay, in fact. 
Nought satisfied her but to make me 

paint 
Your last book folded in her dimpled 

hands 
Instead of my brown palette, as I 

wished. 
And, granted me, the presentment had 

been newer ; 
She'd grant me nothing : I've com- 
pounded for 
The naming of the wedding-day next 

month. 
And gladly too. 'Tis pretty, to remark 
How women can love women of your 

sort. 
And tie their hearts with love-knots; to 

your feet. 
Grow insolent about you against men. 
And put us down by putting up the lip, 
As if a man, — there rt^^'such, let us own. 
Who write not ill,-— remains a man, poor 

wretch. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



449 



'While you— — ! Write weaker than 

Aurora Leigh, 
And there'll be women who believe of 

you 
(Besides my Kate) that if you walked on 

sand 
You would not leave a foot-print. 

' Are you put 
To wonder by my marriage, like poor 

Leigh ? 
• Kate Ward !' he said. ' Kate Ward 1' 

he said anew. 
' I thought . . . ' he said, and stopped, — 

• I did not think . . . ' 
And then he dropped to silence. 

' Ah, he's changed. 
'. had not seen him, you're aware, for 

long. 
But went of course. I have not touched 

on this 
Through all this letter, — conscious of 

your heart. 
And writing lightlier for the heavy fact. 
As clocks are voluble with lead. 

' How poor. 
To say I'm sorry. Dear Leigh, dearest 

Leigh ! 
In those old days of Shropshire, — pardon 

me, — 
When he and you fought many a field 

of gold 
On what you should do, or you should 

not do. 
Make bread or verses, (it just came to 

that) 
1 thought you'd one day draw a silken 

peace 
Through a golden ring. I thought so. 

Foolishly, 
The event proved, — for you went more 

opposite 
To each other, month by month, and 

year by year. 
Until this happened. God knows l:)est, 

we say, < 

But hoarsely. When the fever took him 

first. 
Just after I had writ to you in France, 
They tell me Lady Walderaar mixed 

drinks 
And counted grains, like any salaried 

nurse. 
Excepting that she wept too. Then 

Lord Howe, 



You're right about Lord Howe, Lord 

Howe's a trump ; 
And yet, with such in his hand, a man 

like Leigh 
May lose, a.s he does. There's an end to 

all,- 
Yes, even this letter, though this second 

sheet 
May find you doubtful. Write a word 

for Kate : 
She reads my letters always, like a wife. 
And if she sees her name, I'll see her 

smile 
And share the luck. So, bless you, 

friend of two I 
1 will not ask you what your feeling is 
At Florence with my pictures. 1 can hear 
Your heart a-flutter over the snow-hills : 
And, just to pace the Pitti with you 

once, 
I'd give a half-hour of to-morrow's walk 
With Kate . . I think so. Vincent Car- 

rington. 

The noon was hot ; the air scorched like 

the sun 
And was shut out.- The closed persiani 

threw 
Their long-scored shadows on my villa- 
floor. 
And interlined the golden atmosphere 
Straight, still, — across the pictures on the 

wall 
The statuette on the console, (of young 

Love 
x\nd Psyche made one marble by a kiss) 
The low couch where I leaned, the table 

near. 
The vase of lilies Marian pulled last 

night 
(Each green leaf and each white leaf 

ruled in black 
As if for writing some new text of fate) 
And the open letter, rested on my knee. 
But there, the lines swerved, trembled, 

though 1 sate 
Untroubled . . plainly, . . reading it 

again 
And three times. Well, he's married ; 

that is clear. 
No wonder that he's married, nor much 

more 
That Vincent'.s therefore ' sorry.' Why, 

of course. 



450 



AURORA LEIGH. 



The lady nursed lilm when he was not 

wclf, 
Mixed drinks, — unless nepenthe W:is ihc 

drink 
'Twas scarce worth telling. But a man 

in love 
Will see the whole sex in his mistress' 

hood, 
The prettier for its lining of fair rose ; 
Although he catches back and says at 

last. 
' T m sorry.' Sorry. Lady Waldcmar 
At prettiest, under the said hood, pre- 
served 
From sucli a light as I could hold to her 

face 
To flare its n.gly wrinkles out to shame. 
Is scarce a wife for Romney, as friends 

Aurora Leigh, or Vincent Carrington, 
That's plain. And if he's ' con.scious of 

my heart' . . 
It may he natural, though the phra.se is 

strong ; 
(One's apt to vise strong phrases, being 

in love) 
And even tiiat stuff of ' fields of gold,' 

•gold rings,' 
And what he 'thought,' poor Vincent 1 

what he ' thought,' 
May never mean enough to ruffle me. 
—Why, this room stifles. JJetter burn 

than choke : 
Best have air. air, although it comes with 

fire. 
Throw open blinds and windows to the 

noon 
And take a blister on -ny brow instead 
Of this dead weight I 2sl, perfectly be 

stunned 
By those insufferable cicale, sick 
And hoarse with rapture of the summer 

heat. 
That sing like poets, till iheir hearts 

break, . . sing 
Till men say, ' It's too tedious.' 

Books succeed, 
.\nd lives fail. Do I feel it so, at last ? 
Kate loves a worn-out cloak for being 

like mine, 
While I live self-despised for being my- 
self, 
And yearn toward some one else, who 

yearns away 



From what he is, in his turn. Strain ^ 

step 
For ever, yet gain no stcj) ? Arc we 

such. 
We cannot, with our admirations even, 
Our tip-toe aspirations, touch a thing 
That's higher than wc ? is all a dismal 

flat. 
And God alone above each, — as the suiv 
O'er level lagunes, to make them shino 

and stink, — 
Laying stress upon us with immediate 

flame. 
While we respond with our miasmal fog, 
And call it mounting higher because we 

grow 
More highly fatal ? 

Tush, Aurora Leigh ! 
You wear your sackcloth looped in 

Caesar's way. 
And brag your failings as mankind's, lie 

still. 
There ?V what's higher, in this very 

world, 
Than you can live, or catch at. Stand 

aside. 
And look at others — instance little Kale I 
She'll make a perfect wife for Carrington. 
She always has been looking round the 

earth 
For something good and green to alight 

upon 
And nestle into, with those .soft-winged 

eyes 
Subsiding now beneath his manly hand 
'Twixt trembling lids of inexpressive 

joy : 
I will not scorn her, after all, too much, 
That so much she should love me. A 

wise man 
Can pluck a leaf, and find a lecture in't ; 
And 1, too, . . God has made me, — I've 

a heart 
That's capable of worship, love and loss ; 
We say the same of Shakspeare's. I'll 

be meek. 
And learn to reverence, even this poor 

my. self. 

The book, too — pass it. ' A good bool:,' 

says he, 
' And you a woman.' I had lau.^hed ;il 

that, 
But long since. I'm a wo:n.iii, — .t is true ; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



451 



J A.^',, and wok to iis, when wc feel it 
most I 
'I'hcn, least care liave we for the crowns 
I and goals 

And compliments on writing our good 
books. 

The book has some truth in it, I believe : 
And truth outlives pain, as the soul does 

life. 
I know we talk our Phaedons to the end 
Through all the dismal faces that we 

make, 
O'er-wrinkled with dishonoring agony 
From decomposing drugs. I have writ- 
ten truth. 
And I a woman ; fticbly, partially, 
Inaptly in presentation, Romney 11 add, 
liecause a woman. Tor the truth itself, 
'I'hat's neither man's nor woman's, but 

just God's ; 
None else has rea.son to be proud of 

truth : 
Himself will sec it sifted, disenthralled. 
And kept upon the height and in the 

light. 
As far as and no farther than 'tis truth ; 
For, — now He has left o(T calling firma- 
ments 
And strata, flowers and creatures, very 

good. 
He siys It still of truth, which is His 
own. 

Truth, so far, in my boolc ; — ilie truth 

which draws 
Through all tilings upwards ; that a two- 
fold world 
Must go to a perfect cosmos. Natural 

things 
And spiritual, — who separates those two 
In art, in morals, or the social drift, 
'lears up the bond of nature and brings 

death. 
Paints futile pictures, writes imrea\ verse. 
Leads vulgar days, deals ignorantly 

with men, 
Is wrong, in short, at a'l points. We 

divide 
ITiis apple of life, and cut it through 

the pips, — 
The perfect round which fitted Venits' 

hand 
Has perished as utterly as if we ate 



iJolh halves. Without the spiritual, ob- 
serve, 
The natural's impossible ; no form. 
No motion ! Without sensuous, spirit- 
ual 
Is inappreciable ; — no beauty or power : 
i^d in this twofold sphere the twofold 

man 
(And still the artist is intensely a man) 
Holds firmly by the natural, to reach 
'I'he spiritual beyond it, — fixes still 
The type with mortal vision, to pierce 

through. 
With eyes immortal, to the antetype 
Some call the ideal, — better called the 

real. 
And certain to be called so presently 
When tilings shall have their names. 

Look long enough 
On any peasant's face here, coarse and 

lined. 
You'll catch Antinous somewhere in that 

clay. 
As perfect featured as lie yearns at 

Rome 
PVom marble pale with beauty ; then 

persist. 
And, if your apprehension's competent. 
You'll find some fairer angel at his back. 
As much exceeding him as he the boor. 
And pushing him with imperial disdain 
For ever out of sight. Ay, Carrington 
Is glad of such a creed : an artist mast. 
Who paints a tree, a leaf, a common 

stone, 
With just his hand, and finds it sud- 
denly 
A-piece with and conterminous to his 

soul. 
Why else do these things move him, 

leaf or stone ? 
The bird's not moved, that pecks at a 

spring-shoot ; 
Nor yet the horse before a quarry 

a-graze : 
But man, the two-fold creature, appre- 
hends 
The two-fold manner, in and outwardly. 
And nothing in the world comes single 

to him, 
A mere itself, — cup, column, or candle- 
stick, 
All patterns of what shall be in tha 
Muunt ; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



The whole temporal show related roy- 
ally. 

And built up to eterne significance 

Through the open arnis of God. ' There's 
nothing great 

Nor small,' has said a poet of our day, 

Whose voice will ring beyond the cur- 
few of eve 

And not be thrown out by the matin's 
bell : 

And truly, I reiterate, . . nothing's small ! 

No lily-muffled hum of a summer-bee. 

But finds some coupling with the spin- 
nmg stars ; 

No j)ebble at your foot, but proves a 
sphere ; 

No chaffinch, but implies the cherubim : 

And. — ^glancing on my own thin, veined 
wrist. — 

In such a little tremour of the blood 

The whole strong clamour of a vehe- 
ment soul 

Doth utter itself distinct. Earth's 
crammed with heaven. 

And every common bush afire with 
God: 

But only he who sees, takes off his 
shoes. 

The rest sit round it and pluck blackber- 
ries. 

And daub their natural faces unaware 

More and more from the first similitude. 

Truth so far, in my book 1 a truth which 

draws 
From all things upward. I, Aurora, 

still 
Have felt it hound me through the 

wastes of Ijfe 
As Jove did lo : and, until that Hand 
Shall overtake me wholly, and on my 

head 
Lay down its large unfluctuating peace. 
The feverish gad-fly pricks me up and 

down. 
It must be. Art's the witness of what is 
Behind this show. If this world's .show 

were all. 
Then imitation would be all in Art ; 
There, Jove's hand gripes us! — for wc 

stand here, we, 
IS genuine artists, witnessing for God's 
Complete, consummate, undivided 

work : 



— That every natural flower whict 

grows on earth. 
Implies a flower upon the spiritual side 
Substantial, archetypal, all a-glow 
With blossoming causes, — not so fai 

away. 
That we, whose spirit-sense is somewha 

cleared. 
May catch at something of the bloon: 

and breath. — ■ 
Too vaguely apprehended, though in 

deed 
Still apprehended, consciously or not. 
And still transferred to picture, miisic,^ 

verse. 
For thrilling audient and beholding soul 
By signs and touches which are known 

to souls. 
How known they know not, — why, they 

cannot find. 
So straight call out on genius, say, ' Ai 

man 
Produced this,' when much rather they 

should say, 
' 'Tis insight, and he saw this.' 

Thus is Art 
Self-magnified in magnifying a truth 
Which, fully recognised, would changej 

the world 
And shift its morals. If a man could 

feel. 
Not one day, in the artist's ecstasy. 
But every day, feast, fast, or working- 
day. 
The spiritual significance burn through 
The hieroglyphic of material shows. 
Henceforward he would paint the globe 

with wings. 
And reverence fish and fowl, the bull, 

the tree. 
And even his very body as a man, — 
Which now he counts so vile, that all 

the towns 
Make oflTal of their daughters for its use 
On summer-nights, when God is sad in 

heaven 
To think what goes on in his recreant 

world 
He made quite other ; while that moon 

He made 
To shine there, at the first love's cove- 
nant, 
Shines still, convictive as a marri.age-ring 
Before adulterous eyes. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



453 



How sure it is. 
That, if we say a true word, instantly 
We feel 'tis God's, not ours, and pass it 

on 
As bread at sacrament we taste and pass 
Nor handle for a moment, as indeed 
We dared to set up any claim to such ! 
And I — my poem ; — let my readers talk. 
I'm closer to it — I can speak as well : 
I'll say with Romney, that the book is 

weak. 
The range uneven, the points of sight 

obscure, 
^he music interrupted. 

Let us go. 
The end of woman (or of man, I think) 
Is not a book, Alas, the best of books 
Is but a word in Art, which soon grows 

cramped, 
Stifif, dubious-statured with the weight 

of years, 
And drops an accent or digamma down 
Some cranny of unfathomable time, 
Beyond the critic's reaching. Art itself, 
We've called the higher life, must feel 

the soul 
Live past it. For more's felt than is 

perceived. 
And more's perceived than can be in- 
terpreted. 
And Love strikes higher with his lam- 
bent flame 
Thau Art can pile the fagots. 

Is it so ? 
When Jove's hand meets us with com- 
posing touch. 
And when at last we are hushed and 

satisfied. 
Then lo does not call it truth, but love ? 
Well, well ! my father was an English- 
man : 
My mother's blood in me is not so strong 
That I should bear this stress of Tuscan 

noon 
And keep my wits. The town, there, 

seems to seethe < 

In this Medaean boil-pot of the sun. 
And all the patient hills are bubbling 

round 
As if a prick would leave them flat. 

Does heaven 
Keep far off, not to set us in a blaze ? 
Not so, — let drag your fiery fringes, 
heaven, 



And burn us up to quiet ! Ah, we know 
loo much here, not to know what's best 

for peace ; 
We have too much light here, not to 

want more fire 
To purify and end us. We talk, talk. 
Conclude upon divine philosophies. 
And get the thanks of men for hopeful 

books ; 
Whereat we take our own life up, and 

. . pshaw ! 
Unless we piece it with another's life, 
(A yard of silk to carry out our lawn) 
As well suppose my little handkerchief 
Would cover Samminiato, church an 

all. 
If out I threw it past the cypresses. 
As, in this ragged, narrow life of mine. 
Contain my own conclusions. 

But at least 
We'll shut up the persiani and sit down. 
And when my head's done aching in the 

cool. 
Write just a word to Kate and Carring- 

ton. 
May joy be with them ! she has chosen 

well. 
And he not ill. 

I should be glad, I think. 
Except for Romney. Had he married 

Kate, 
I surely, surely, should be very glad. 
This Florence sits upon me easily. 
With native air and tongue. My graves 

are calm. 
And do not too much hurt me. Ma- 
rian's good. 
Gentle and loving, — lets me hold the 

child. 
Or drags him up the hills to find mt 

flowers 
And fill those vases ere I'm quite 

awake, — 
The grandiose red tulips, which grow 

wild, 
Or Dante's purple lilies, which he blew 
To a larger bubble with liis prophet 

breath ; 
Or one of those tall flowering reeds that 

stand 
In Arno like a sheaf of sceptres left 
By some remote dynasty of dead gods. 
To suck the stream for ages and get 

green. 



454 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And blossom wheresoc'r a hand divine 

Had warmed the place with ichor. 
Such I find 

At early morning laid across my lied. 

And woke up pelted with a childish 
laugh 

Which even Marian's low precipitous 
• hush ' 

Had vainly interposed to put away, — 

While 1, with shut eyes, smile and mo- 
tion for 

The dewy kiss that's very sure to come 

From mouth and cheeks, the wiiole 
child's face at once 

Dissolved on mine, — as if a nosegay 
burst 

Its string with the weight of roses over- 
blown. 

And dropt upon me. Surely I .should lie 
glad. 

The little creature almost loves me now, 

And calls my name . . ' Alola,' stripping 
off 

The fs like thorns, to make it smooth 
enough 

To take between his dainty, milk-fed 
lips. 

God love him ! I should certainly be glad, 

E.xcept, God help me, tiiat I'm surrow- 
ful. 

Because of Romney. 

Romney, Romney ! Well, 

This grows absurd ! — too like a time lliat 
runs 

r the head, and forces all things in the 
world. 

Wind, rain, the creaking gnat or stutter- 
ing fly. 

To sing itself and vc.k you; — yet per- 
haps 

A paltry tune you never fairly liked. 

Some ' I'd be a butterfly,' or ' C'est 
I'amour : ' 

W«'re made so, — not such tyrants to 
ourselves 

But still we are slaves to nature. Some 
of us 

Are turned, too, overmuch like some 
poor verse 

With a trick of ritournelle : the same 
thing goes 

And comes br'k ever. 

Vincent Carrington 

Is ' isorry,' and I'm sorry ; but he's strong 



To mount from sorrow t» his heaver of 

lo\e, 
And when he says at moments, ' Poor, 

poor Leigh, 
Who'll never call his own so true a heart, 
So fair a face even,' — he must quickly 

lose 
The pain of pity in the blush he makes 
By his very pitying eyes. Ihe snow, 

for him. 
Has fallen in May, and finds the whole 

earth warm. 
And melts at the first touch of the green 

grass. 
But Romney, — he has chosen, after all. 
1 think he had as excellent a sun 
To see by, as most others, and perhaps 
Has scarce seen really worse than some 

of us. 
When all's said. Let him pass. I'm 

not too much 
A woman, not to be a man for once 
And bury all my Dead like Alanc, 
Depositing the treasures of my soul 
In this drained waler-course, then letting 

flow 
The river of life again with commerce- 
ships 
And pleasure-barges, full of silks and 

songs. 
Blow winds, and help us. 

Ah, we mock ourselves 
With talking of the winds 1 perhaps as 

much 
With other resolutions. How it weighs. 
This hot, sick air ! and how I covet here 
The Dead's provision on the river-couch 
With silver curtains drawn on tinkling 



rmgs 



Or else their rest in quiet crypts,-laid by 
From heat and noise:— from those cicale, 

say, 
And this more vexing heart-beat. 

So it is : 
We covet for the soul, the body's part. 
To die and rot. Even so, Aurora, ends 
Our aspiration, who bespoke our place 
So far in the east. The occidental Hats 
Had fed us fatter, therefore ? we have 

climbed 
Where herbage ends? we want the 

beast's part now 
And tire of the angel's? — Men define « 

man. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



The creature who stands front-ward to 

the stars. 
The creature who looks inward to him- 
self. 
The tool - Wright, laughing creature. 

'Tis enough : 
We'll say, instead, the inconsequent 

creature, man, 
For that's his speciality. What creature 

else 
Conceives the circle, and then walks the 

square ? 
Loves things proved bad, and leaves a 

thing proved good ? 
You think the bee makes honey half a 

year. 
To loathe the comb in winter and desire 
The little ant's food rather ? But a man — 
Note men ! — they are but women after 

all. 
As women are but Auroras ! — there are 

men 
Born tender, apt to pale at a trodden 

worm. 
Who paint for pastime, in their favorite 

dream. 
Spruce auto - vestments flowered with 

crocus-flames : 
There are two, who believe in heaven, 

and fear : 
There are, who waste their souls in 

working out 
Life's problem on these sands betwixt 

two tides, 
Concluding, — ' Give iis the oyster's part, 

in death.' 

Alas, long - sufi"ering and most patient 

God, 
Thou need'st be surelier God to bear 

with us 
Than even to have made us ! thou aspire, 

aspire 
From henceforth for me ! thou who hast 

thyself 
Tn dared this fleshhood, knowing how 

as a soaked 
A;id sucking vesture it can drag us 

down 
\nd choke us in the melancholy Deep, 
Sustain me, that with thee I walk these 

waves. 
Resisting I — breathe me upwar ', thou in 

mc 



Aspiring, who art the way, the truth, 
the life,— 

That no truth henceforth seem indiffer- 
ent, 

No way to truth laborious, and no life. 

Not even this life I live, intolerable ! 

The days went by. I took up the old 
days 

With all their Tuscan pleasures worn 
and spoiled 

Like some lost book we dropt in the long 
grass 

On such a happy summer-afternoon 

When last we read it with a loving 
friend, 

And find in autumn when the friend is 
gone. 

The grass cut short, the weather 
changed, too late. 

And stare at, as at something wonderful 

For sorrow, — thinking how two hands 
before 

Had held up what is left to only one. 

And how we smiled when such a vehe- 
ment nail 

Impressed the tiny dint here which pre- 
sents 

This verse in fire for ever. Tenderly 

And mournfully 1 lived. I knew the 
birds 

And insects, — which looked fathered 
by the flowers 

And emulous of their hues : I recog- 
nized 

The moths, with the great overpoise of 
wings 

Which makes a mystery of them how at 
all 

They can stop flying : butterflies, that 
bear 

Upon their blue wings such red embers 
round. 

They seem to scorch the blue air into 
holes 

Each flight they take : and fire-flies 
that suspire 

In short soft lapses of transported flame. 

Across the tingling Dark, while over- 
head 

The constant and inviolable stars 

Outburn those lights-of-love : melodious 
owls, 

(If music had but one note and wxs sad. 



456 



AURORA LEIGH. 



'Twould soimd jast so) and all the silent 

swirl 
Of bats that seem to follow in the air 
Some grand circumference of a shadowy 

dome 
To which we are blind : and then the 

nightingales. 
Which pluck our heart across a garden- 
wall 
(When walking in the town) and carry 

it 
So high into the bowery almond-trees. 
We tremble and are afraid, and feel as if 
The golden flood of moonlight unaware 
Dissolved the pillars of the steady earth 
And made it less substantial. And I 

knew 
The liarmless opal snakes, and large 

mouthed frogs 
(Those noisy vaunters of their shallow 

streams) 
And lizards, the green lightnings of the 

wall. 
Which, if you sit down quiet nor sigh 

loud, 
Will flatter you and take you for a 

stone, 
And flash familiarly about your feet 
With such i)rodigious eyes in such small 

heads !— 
1 knew them, though they had somewhat 

dwindled from 
My childish imagery, — and kept in 

mind 
How last I sat among them equally. 
In fellowship and mateship, as a child 
Feels equal still toward insect, beast, 

and bird, 
Before the Adam in him has foregone 
All privilege of Eden, — making friends 
And talk, with such a bird or such a goat. 
And buying many a two-inch-wide rush- 
cage 
To let out the caged cricket on a tree, 
Saying, * Oh, my dear grillino, were 

you cramped \ 
And are you happy with the ilex-leaves ? 
And do you love me who have let you I 

go? 
Say^^i- in singing, and I'll understand.' 
But now the creatures all seemed farther 

off-, 
No longer mine, nor like me ; only there. 



A gulph between us. I could yearn in- 

deed. 
Like other rich men, for a drop of dew . 
To cool this heat, — a drop of the carjjl 

dew. 
The irrecoverable child innocence 
(Before the heart took fire and witherecj 

life) 
When childhood might pair equallj 

with birds ; 
But now . . the birds were grown to< 

proud for us ! 
Alas, the very sun forbids the dew. 

And I, I had come back to an empty, 

nest, ! 

Which every bird's too wise for. How; 

I heard 
My f^\ther's step on that deserted ground 
Hs voice along that silence, as he told 
The names of bird and insect, tree anc, 

flower. 
And all the presentations of the stars 
Across Valdarno, interposing still 
' My child,' ' my child.' When father] 

say ' my child,' 
'Tis easier to conceive the universe. 
And life's transitions down the steps oij 

law. 
I rode once to the little mountain-house 
As fast as if to find my father there. 
But when in sight oft, within fifty yardst 
I dropped my horse's bridle on his necl-j 
And paused upon his flank. The house': 

front 
Was cased with lingots of ripe Indian 

corn 
In tesselated order and device 
Of golden patterns : not a stone of wal 
Uncovered, — not an inch of room ti 

grow 
A vine-leaf. The old porch had disap 

peared ; 
And right in the open doorway, sate : 

At plaiting straws, — her blacic hai: 

strained away 
To a scarlet kerchief caught beneath he 

chin 
In Tuscan fashion, — her full ebon eye«. 
Which looked too heavy to be lifted s< 
Still dropt and lifted toward the mul 

berry-tree 



AURORA LEIGH. 



457 



On which the lads were busy with their 

staves 
In shout and laughter, stripping every 

bough 
As bare as winter, of those summer 

leaves 
My father had not changed for all the 

silk 

In which the ugly silkworms hide them- 
selves. 

Enough. My horse recoiled before my 
heart. 

I turned the rein abruptly. Back we 
went as fast, to Florence. 

That was trial enough 
Of graves. I would not visit, if 1 could, 
My father's, or my mother's any morel 
To see if stone-cutter or lichen beat 
WL-^ u^' '" ^^^ ^^^'^' '^^ throw my flowers. 
Which could not out-smell heaven or 

sweeten earth. 
They live too far above, that I should 

look 
So far below to find them : let me think 
,, . ^ pther they are visiting my grave, 
'Ihis life here, (undeveloped yet to life) 
And that they drop upon me, now and 

then. 
For token or for solace, some small weed 
Least odorous of the growths of paradise. 
To spare such pimgent scents as kill with 

joy. 
My old Assunta, too, was dead, was 

dead — 
O land of all men's past ! for me alone. 
It would not mix its tenses. I was past. 
It seemed, like others, — only not in 

heaven. 
And. many a Tuscan eve I wandered 

down 
The cypress alley like a restless ghost 
'Ihat tries Us feeble ineffectual breath 
Upon Its own charred funeral-brands 

put out 
Too soon,— where black and sti.T'stood 

up the trees 
Against the broad vermilion of the 

skies. 
Such skies!— all clouds abolished in a 

sweep 
Of God's skirt, with a dazzle to ghosts 

and men. 
As dowu 1 went, saluting on the bridge 



The hem of such before 'twas caught 

away 
Beyond the peaks of Lucca. Under- 
neath, 
The river just escaping from the weight 
Of that intolerable glory, ran 
In acquiescent shadow murmurously : 
While up beside it, streamed the festa- 

folk 
With fellow-murmurs from their feet 

and fans. 
And issimo and ino and sweet poise 
Of vowels in their pleasant scandalous 

talk ; 
Returning from the grand-duke's dairy- 
farm 
Before the trees grew dangerous at 

eight, 
(For, ' trust no tree by moonlight,' 
Tuscans say) 

To eat their ice at Donay's tenderly, 

Each lovely lady close to a cavalier ' 
Who'holds her dear fan while she feeds 

her smile 
On meditative spoonfuls of vanille, 
And listens to his hot-breathed vows of 

love. 
Enough to thaw her cream and scorch 

his beard. 
'Twas little matter. I could pass them by 
Indifferently, not fearing to be known. 
No danger of being wrecked upon a 

friend. 
And forced to take an iceberg for an isle ! 
The very English, here, must wait and 

learn 
To hang the cobweb of their gossip out 
And catch a fly. I'm happy. It's sub- 
lime. 
This perfect solitude of foreign lands ! 
To be, as if you had not been till then, 
And were then, simply what you choose 

to be ; 
To spring up, not be brought forth from 

the ground 
Like grasshoppers at Athens, and skip 

thrice 
Before a woman makes a pounce on you 
And plants you in her hair ! — possess, 

yourself, 
A new world all alive with creatures 

new. 
New sun. new moon, new flowers, new 
people — ah. 



453 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And be possessed by none of thcni ! no 

right 
In one, to call your name, enquire your 

where. 
Or what you think of Mister Some-one's 

book, 
Or iMister Other's marriage or decease. 
Or liow's the headache which you had 

last week, 
Or why you look so pale still, since it's 

gone ? 
— Such most surprising riddance of one's 

life 
Comes next one's death ; 'tis disembod- 

unent 
Without the pang. I marvel, jieople 

choose 
To stand stock-still like fakirs, till the 

moss 
Grows on them and they crj' out, self- 
admired, 
' How verdant and how virtuous 1' Well, 

I'm glad 
Or should be, if grown foreign to my- 
self 
As surely as to others. 

Musing so, 
I v/alked the narrow unrecognising 

streets. 
Where many a palace-front peers gloom- 

Through stony vizors iron-barred, (pre- 
pared 

Alike, should foe or lover pass that way. 

For guest or victim) and came wander- 
ing out 

Upon the churches wi.th mild open doors 

And plaintive wail of vespers, where a 
a few. 

Those chiefly women, sprinkled ro»md 
in blots 

Upon the dusky pavement, knelt and 
pra y ed 

Toward the altar's silver glory. Oft a ray 

(I liked to sit and watch would tremble 
out, 

Just touch some face more lifted, more 
in need. 

Of course a woman's — while I dreamed 
a tale 

To fit Its fortunes. There was one who 
looked 

As if the earth had suddenly grown too 
large 



For such a little humpbacked thing as 

she ; 
The pitiful black kerchief round her 

neck 
Sole proof she liad had a mother. One, 

again. 
Looked sick for love, — seemed praying 

some soft saint 
To put more virtue in the new fine scarf 
She spent a fortnight's meals on, yester- 
day, 
That cruel Gigi might return Ins eyes 
From Giuliana. There was one, so old. 
So old, to kneel grew easier than to 

stand, — 
So solitary, she accepts at last 
Our Lady for her gossip, and frets on 
Against the sinful world which goes its 

rounds 
In marrying and being married, just the 

.same 
As when 'twas almost good and had the 

right, 
(Her Gian alive, and she herself eigh- 
teen). 
And yet, now even, if Madonna willed. 
She'd win a tern in Thursday's lottery 
' And better all things. Did she dream 

for nought, 
That, boiling cabbage for the fast-day's 

soup. 
It smelt like blessed entrads? such a 

dream 
For nought ! would sweetest Mary cheat 

her so. 
And lose that certain candle, straight 

and white 
As any fair grand-duchess in her teens, 
Whicli otherwise should flare here in a 

week ? 
Benigna sis, thou beauteous Queen of 

heaven !' 

1 sate there musing and imagining 
Such utterance from such faces : poor 

blind souls 
That writhed toward heaven along the i 

devil's trail,— 
Who knows, I "thought, but He may 

stretcli his hand 
And pick them up ? 'tis written in thft 

Rook 
He heareth the young ravens when they 

cry ; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



459 



And yet they cry for carrion.— O my 

God, 
And we, who make excuses for the rest, 
We do it in our measure. Then I kneh. 
And dropped my head upon the pave- 
ment too. 
And prayed, since I was foohsh in desire 
Like other creatures, craving offal-food, 
That He would stop his ears to what I 

said. 
And only listen to the run and beat 
Of this poor, passionate, helpless blood — 

And then 
I lay, and spoke not. But He heard in 

heaven. 
So many Tuscan evenings passed the 

same. 
I could not lose a sunset on the bridge. 
And would not miss a vigil in the church, 
And liked to mingle with the out-door 

crowd 
So strange and gay and ignorant of my 

face. 
For men you know not, are as good as 

trees. 
And only once, at the Santissima, 
I almost chanced upon a man I knew. 
Sir Blaise Delorme. He saw me cer- 
tainly. 
And somewhat hurried, as he crossed 

himself. 
The smoothness of the action, — then half 

bowed, 
But only half, and merely to my shade, 
I slipped so quick behind the porphyry 

plinth 
And left him dubious if 'twas really I, 
Or peradventure Satan's usual trick 
To keep a mounting saint uncanonised. 
But he was safe for that time, and I too ; 
The argent angels in the altar-flare 
Absorbed his soul next moment. The 

good man ! 
In England we were scarce acquaint- 
ances, . 
That here in Florence he should keep 

my thou.ght 
Beyond the image on his eye, which 

came 
And went : and yet his thought dis- 
turbed my life : 
For, after that, I oftener sat at home 
On evenings, watching how they fined 
themselves 



With gradual conscience to a perfect 

night. 
Until the moon, diminished to a curve. 
Lay out there like a sickle for His hand 
Who cometh down at last to reap the 

earth. 
At such times, ended seemed my trade 

of verse ; 
I feared to jingle bells upon my robe 
Before the four-faced silent cherubim,: 
With God so near me, could I sing of 

God V 
I did not write, nor read, nor even 

think. 
But sate absorbed amid the quickening 

glooms, 
Most like some passive broken lump of 

salt 
Dropt in by chance to a bowl of oeno- 

mel, 
To spoil the drink a little and lose itself. 
Dissolving slowly, slowly, until lost. 



EIGHTH BOOK. 

One eve it happened when I sate alone;. 

Alone upon the terrace of my tower, 

A book upon my knees to counterfeit 

The reading that I never read at all. 

While Marian, in the garden down be- 
low. 

Knelt by the fountain I could just hear 
thrill 

The drowsy silence of the exhausted 
day. 

And peeled a new fig from that purple 
heap 

In the grass beside her, — turning out the 
red 

To feed her eager child, who sucked at 
it 

With vehement lips across a gap of air 

As he stood opposite, face and curls 
a-flame 

With that last sun-ray, crying, ' give me, 
give,' 

And stamping with imperious baby- 
feet, 

(We're all born princes) — something 
startled me, — 

The laugh of sad and innocent souls, 
that breaks 



4<x> 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Abruptly, as if frightened at itself ; 
'Twas Marian laughed. 1 saw her 

glance above 
In sudden shame that I should hear her 

laugh, 
And straightway dropped my eyes upon 

my book. 
And knew, the first time, 'twas Bocca- 

cio's tale. 
The Falcon's, — of the lover who for. 

love 
Destroyed the best that loved him. 

Some of us 
Do it still, and then we sit and laugh no 

more. 
Laugh you, sweet Marian I you've the 

right to laugh. 
Since God himself is for you, and a 

child! 
For me there's somewhat less, — and so I 

sigh. 

The heavens were making room to hold 

the night. 
The seven -fold heavens unfolding all 

their gates 
To let the stars out slowly (prophesied 
In close-approaching advent, not dis- 
cerned). 
While still the cue-owls from the 

cypresses 
Of the poggio called and counted every 

pulse 
Of the skyey palpitation. Gradually 
The purple and transparent shadows 

slow 
Had filled up the whole valley to the 

brim, 
ymd flooded all the city, which you 

saw 
As some drowned city in some enchanted 

.sea. 
Cut off from nature, — drawing you who 

gaze. 
With passionate desire, to leap and 

plunge 
And find a sea-king With a voice of 

w.aves. 
And treacherous soft eyes, :«nd slippery 

locks 
You cannot kiss but you shall bring 

away 
Their salt upon your lips. The duomo- 

bell 



Strikes ten, as if it struck ten fathoms 

down. 
So deep ; and fifty churches answer it 
The same witli twenty various instances. 
Some gaslights tremble along squares 

and streets ; 
The Pitti's palace-front is drawn in fire : 
And, past the quays, Maria Novella 

PL-xce, 
In which the my.stic obelisks stand up 
Triangular, pyramidal, each based 
Upon its four-square brazen tortoises. 
To guard that fair church, Buonarotti's 

Bride. 
That stares out from her large blind 

dial-eyes. 
Her quadrant and armillary dials, black 
With rhythms of many suns and moons. 

in vain 
Enquiry for so rich a soul as his. 
Methinks I have plunged, I see it all so 

clear . . . 
And, oh my heart , . . the sea-king ! 

In my ears 
The sound of waters. There he stood, 
my king ! 

I felt him, rather than beheld him Up 

I rose, as if he were my king indeed. 

And then sate down, in trouble at my- 
self. 

And struggling for my woman's empcry. 

Tis pitiful ; but women are so made : 

We'll die for you perhaps, — 'tis proba- 
ble ; 

But we'll not spare you an inch of onr 
full height : 

We'll have our whole just stature, — five 
feet four. 

Though laid out in our coffins : pitiful ! 

— 'You, Romney ! Lady Waldemar 

is here ? * 

He answered in a voice which was not 

his, 
'I have her letter; you shall read it 

soon. 
But first, I must be heard a little, I, 
Who have waited long and travelled fir 

for that. 
Although you thought to have shut a 

tedious book 
And farewell. Ah, you dog-eared such 

a page, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



46t 



And liere you find me.' 

Did he touch my hand. 

Or but my sleeve? 1 trembled, hand 
and foot, — 

He must have touched mc. — ' Will you 
sit? ' I asked. 

And motioned to a chair ; but down he 
sate, 

A little slowly, as a man in doubt. 

Upon the couch beside me, — couch and 
chair 

Being wheeled upon the terrace. 

' You are come. 

My cousin Romncy? — this is wonder- 
ful. 

But all is wonder on such summer- 
nights ; 

And nothing should surprise us any 
more. 

Who see that miracle of stars. Behold.' 

I signed above, where all the stars were 

out, 
As if an urgent heat had started there 
A secret writing from a sombre page, 
A blank last moment, crowded suddenly 
With hurrying splendors. 

' Then you do not know' — 
He murmured. 

' Yes, I know,' I said, ' I know. 
I had the news from Vincent Carring- 

ton. 
And yet I did not think you'd leave the 

work 
In England, for so much even, — though 

of course 
You'll make a work-day of your holiday, 
And turn it to our Tuscan people's use, — 
Who much need helping since the Aus- 
trian boar 
(So bold to cross the Alp to Lombardy 
And dash his brute front unabashed 

against 
The steep snow-bosses of that shield of 

God 
Who soon shall rise in wrath and'shake 

it clear,) 
Came hither also, — raking up our grape 
And olive-gardens with his tyrannous 

tusk, 
And rolling on our maize with all his 

swine.' 
j * You had the news from Vincent Car- 
! rington,' 



He echoed, — picking up the phrase be- 
yond, 

As if he knew the rest was merely talk 

'I'o fill a gap and keep out a strong wind, 

' You had, then, Vmcent's personal 
news V 

' His own,' 

I answered. 'All that ruined world of 
yours 

Seems crumbling into marriage. Car- 
rington 

Has chosen wisely ' 

' Do you take it so V 

He cried, ' and is it possible at last' . . 

He paused there, — and then, inward to 
himself, 

'Too much at last, too late ! — yet cer- 
tainly' . . 

(And there his voice swayed as an Al- 
pine plank 

That feels a passionate torrent under- 
neath) 

' The knowledge, had I known it first or 
last. 

Had never changed the actual case for 

And best for her at this time.' 

Nay, I thought. 
He loves Kate Ward, it seems, now, like 

a man. 
Because he has married Lady Walde- 

mar. 
Ah, Vincent's letter said how Leigh was 

moved 
To hear that Vincent was betrothed to 

Kate. 
With what cracked pitchers go we to 

deep wells 
In this world I Then I spoke. — ' 1 did 

not think, 
My cousin, you had ever known Kate 

Ward.' 

' In fact I never knew her. 'Tis enough 
That Vincent did, and therefore chose 

his wife 
For other reasons than those topaz eyes 
I've heard of. Not to undervalue them. 
For all that. One takes up the world 

with eyes. 

— Including Romney Leigh, I thought 

again, 
Albeit he knows them only by repute. 



46« 



AURORA LEIGH. 



How vile must all men be. since he's a 



His deep pathetic voice, as if he guessed 
I did not surely love hun, took the word; 
' You never got a letter irom Lord Howe 
A month back, dear Aurora V 

'None,' I said. 

' I felt it so,' lie replied : ' Yet, strange ! 
Sir Blaise Delorine has passed through 

Florence ? 

'Ay. 
By chance I saw him in Our Lady's 

church, 
(I saw him, mark you. but he saw not 

me) 
Clean-washed in holy water from the 

count 
Of things terrestrial, — letters and the 

rest ; 
He had crossed us out together with liii 

sins. 
Ay, strange ; but only strange that good 

Lord Howe 
Preferred him to the post because of 

pauls. 
For me I'm sworn never to trust a man — 
At least with letters.' 

There were facts to tell. 

To smooth with eye and accent. Howe 
supposed . . 

Well, well, no matter ! there was du- 
bious need ; 

You heard the news from Vincent Car- 
rington. 

And yet perhaps you had been startled 
less 

To see me,' dear Aurora, if you had 
read 

That letter.' 

— Now he sets me down as vexed. 

I think I've draped mys^£ in woman's 
pride 

To a perfect purpose. Oh, I'm vexed, 
it seems ! 

My friend Lord Howe deputes his friend 
Sir Blaise 

To break as softly as a sparrow's egg 

That lets a bird out tenderly, the news 

Of Romney's marriage to a certain saint; 

To sfnooth ivith eye and decent, — indi- 
cate 



His possible presence. Excellently well 
You've played your part, my Lady 

Waldemar, — 
As I've played mine. 

' Dear Roraney,' I began, 
' You did not use, of old, to be so like 
A Greek king coming from a taken Troy, 
Twas needful that precursors spread 

your path 
With three-piled carpets, to receive your 

foot 
And dull the sound oft. For myself, be 

sure. 
Although it frankly grinds the gravel 

here, 
I still can bear it. Yet I'm sorry too 
To lose this famous letter, which Sir 

Blaise 
Has twisted to a lighter absently 
To fire some holy taper : dear Lord 

Howe 
Writes letters good for all things but to 

lose ; 
And many a flower of London gossipry 
Has dropt wherever such a stem broke 

off. 
Of course I feel that, lonely among my 

vines. 
Where nothing's talked of. save the 

blight again. 
And no more Chianti 1 Still the letter's 

use 

As preparation Did I start indeed i 

Last night I started at a cockchafer. 
And shook a half-hour after. Have you 

learnt 
No more of woman, 'spite of privilege, 
'I'han still to take account too seriously 
Of such weak flutterings ? Why, we 

like it, sir, 
We get our powers and our effects that 

way. 
The trees stand stiff and still at time of 

frost. 
If no wind tears them ; but, let summer 

come. 
When trees are happj', — .and a breath 

avails 
To set them trembling through a million 

leaves 
In luxury of emotion. Something less 
It takes to move a woman ; let her start 
And shake at pleasure, — nor conclude at 

yours. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



46i 



The winter's bitter, — but tlie summer's 
green.' 

He answered, ' Be the summer ever 

green 
With you, Aurora ! — though you sweep 

your sex 
With somewhat bitter gusts from where 

you live 
Above them, whirhng downward from 

your lieights 
. Your very own pine-cones, in a grand 

disdain 
Of the lowland burrs with which you 

scatter them. 
So high and cold to others and yourself, 
A little less to Romney were unjust. 
And thus, I would not have you. Let 

it pass : 
I sel content so. You can bear indeed 
^ ' sudden step beside you :. but for me, 
'1 vould move me sore to hear your 

softened voice, — 
Aurora's voice, — if softened unaware 
In pity of what I am.' 

Ah friend, I thought. 
As husband of the Lady VValdemar 
You're granted very sorely pitiable ! 
And yet Aurora Leigh must guard her 

voice 
From softening in the pity of your case, 
As if from lie or license. Certainly 
We'll soak up all the slush and soil of life 
With softened voices, ere we come to 
you. 

At which I interrupted my own thought 
And spoke out calmly. ' Let us ponder, 

friend, 
Whate'er our state we must have made 

it first ; 
And though the thing displease us, ay, 

perhaps 
Displease us warrantably, never doubt 
That other states, though possible once, 

and then 
Rejected by the instinct of our lives, 
]f then adopted had displeased us more 
Thau this in which the choice, the will, 

the love. 
Has stamped the honour of a patent act 
From henceforth. What we choose may 

not be good ; 



But, tliat we choose it, proves it good for 

us 
Potentially, fantastically, now 
Or last year, rather than a thing we saw. 
And saw no need for choosing. Moths 

will burn 
Their wings, — which proves that light is 

good for moths. 
Or else they had flown not where they 

agonise.' 

' Ay, light is good,' he echoed, and there 
paused. 

And then abruptly, . . ' Marian. Ma- 
rian's well ?' 

I bowed my head but found no word. 

'Twas hard 
To speak of her to Lady Waldemar's 
New husband. How much did he know, 

at last ? 
How much? how little?— He would 

take no sign. 
But straight repeated,—' Marian. Is she 

well?' 

' She's well,' I answered. 

She was there in sight 
An hour back, but the night had drawn 

her home ; 
V/here still I heard her in an upper 

room. 
Her low voice singing to the child in 

bed. 
Who, restless with the summer-heat and 

play 
And slumber snatched at noon, was Ion 

sometimes 
At falling off, and took a score of songs 
And mother-hushes ere she saw him 

sound. 

' She's well, '^ J answered. 

' ' Here ?' he asked. 

' Yes, here. 

He stopped and sighed. ' That shall be 

presently. 
But now this must be. I have words to 

say. 
And would be alone to say them, I with 

you, 



464 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And no third troubling.' 

' Speak then,' I returned, 
' She will not vex you.' 

At which, suddenly 
He turned his face upon me with its 

smile. 
As if to crush me. ' I have read your 

book, 
Aurora.' 

' You have read it,* I replied, 
' And I have writ it, — wc have done 

with it. 
And now the rest V 

' The rest is like the first. 
He answered, — ' for the book is n\ my 

heart. 
Lives in me, wakes in me, and dreams 

in me : 
My daily bread tastes of it, — and my 

wine 
Which has no smack of it, I pour it out ; 
It seems unnatural drinking.' 

Bitterly 
I took the word up ; ' Never waste your 

wine. 
The book lived in me ere it lived in you ; 
I know it closer than another does. 
And how it's foolish, feeble, and afraid. 
And all unworthy so much compliment. 
Beseech you, keep your wine, — and, 

when you drink. 
Still wish some happier fortune to a 

friend. 
Than even to have written a far better 

book.' 

He answered gently, 'That is conse- 
quent : 
The poet looks beyond the book he has 

made. 
Or else he had not made it. If a man 
Could make a man, lic'd henceforth be 

a god 
In feeling what a little thing is man : 
It is not my case. And this special book, 
I did not make it, to make light of it : 
It stands above my knowledge, draws 

me up ; 
'Tis high to me. It may be that the book 
Is not so high, but 1 so low, instead ; 
Still high to me. I mean no compliment: 
I will not say there are not, young or old, 
Male writers, ay or female, — let it pass. 



Who'll write us richer and completer 
books. 

A man may love a woman perfectly. 

And yet by no means ignorantly main- 
tain 

A thousand women have not larger eyes: 

Enough that she alone has looked at him 

With eyes that, large or small, have won 
his soul. 

And so, this book, Aurora, — so, your 
book.' 

' Alas,' I answered, ' is it so, indeed ?' 

And then was silent. 

' Is it so, indeed,' 

He echoed, ' thatrt/rtjisall your word !' 

I said, — ' I'm thinking of a far-off June, 

When you and I, upon my birthday 
once, 

Discoursed of life and art, with both 
untried. 

I'm thinkmg, Romney, how 'twas morn- 
ing then. 

And now 'tis night.' 

'And now,' he said, 'tis night.' 

. ' I'm thinking,' I resumed, ' 'tis some- 
what sad 

That if I had known, that morning in 
the dew. 

My cousin Romney would have said 
such words 

On such a night at close of many years. 

In speaking of a future book of mme. 

It would have pleased me better as a 
hope. 

Than as an actual grace it can at all. 

That's sad, I'm thinking.' 

•Ay,' he said, ''tis nlglit.' 

' And there,' I added lightly, ' arc tlie 

stars ! 
And here we'll talk of stars and not of 

books.' 

' You have the stars,' he murmured, — 

' it is well : 
Be like them ! shine, Aurora, on my 

dark 
Tliough high and cold and only like a 

star, 
And for this short night only, — you, 

who keep 



AURORA LEI GIL 



46s 



The same Aurora of the bright June 
day 

That withered up the flowers before my 
face. 

And turned me from the garden ever- 
more 

Because I was not worthy. Oh, de- 
served, 

Deserved ! That I, who verily had not 
learnt 

God's lesson half, attaining as a dunce 

To obliterate good works with fractious 
thumbs 

And cheat myself of the context, — / 
should push 

Aside, with male ferocious impudence. 

The world's Aurora, who had conned 
her part 

On the other side the leaf! Ignore her 
so. 

Because she was a woman and a queen. 

And had no beard to bristle through her 
song, 

My teacher, who has taught me with a 
book, 

My Miriam, whose sweet mouth, when 
nearly drowned 

I still heard singing on the shore 1 De- 
served, 

That here I should look up unto the 
stars 

And miss the glory ' , . 

' Can I understand ? ' 
I broke in. 'You speak wildly, Rom- 

ney Leigh, 
Or I hear wildly. In that morning- 
time 
We recollect, the roses were too red. 
The trees too green, reproach too nat- 
ural 
If one should see not what the other 

saw : 
And now, it's night, remember ; we 

have shades 
In place of colours ; we are now 'grown 

cold. 
And old, my cousin Romney. Pardon 

me, — 
I'm very happy that you like my book. 
And very sorry that 1 quoted back 
A ten years' birthday ; 'twas so mad a 

thing 
In any woman, I scarce marvel much 



You took it for a venturous piece of 

spite. 
Provoking such excuses as indeed 
I cannot call you slack in.' 

' Understand.' 
He answered sadly, ' something, if but 

so. 
This night is softer than an English day, 
And men may well come hither when 

they're sick. 
To draw in easier breath from larger air. 
'Tis thus with me ; I've como to you, — 

to you. 
My Italy of women, just to breathe 
My soul out once before you, ere I go. 
As humble as God makes ine at the last 
(I thank Him) quite out of the way of 

men 
And yours, Aurora, — like a punished 

child, 
His cheeks all blurred with tears and 

naughtiness. 
To silence in a corner. I am come 
To speak, beloved ' . . 

■Wisely, cousin Leigh, 
And worthily of us both !' 

' Yes, worthily ; 
For this time I must speak out and con- 
fess 
That I, so truculent in assumption once, 
So absolute in dogma, proud in aim. 
And fierce in expectation, — 1, who felt 
The whole world tugging at my skirts 

for help, 
As if no other man than I, could pull. 
Nor woman, but I led her by the hand. 
Nor cloth hold, but I had it in my coat. 
Do know myself to-night for what I was 
On that June-day, Aurora. Poor bright 

day, 
Which meant the best . . a woman and 

a rose, 
And which I smote upon the cheek with 

words 
Until it turned and rent ine I Young 

you were. 
That birthday, poet, but you talked the 

right : 
While 1. . . 1 built np follies like a wall 
To intercept the sunshine and your face. 
Your face ! that's worse.' 

Speak wisely, cousin Leigh.' 
• Yes, wisely, dear Aurora, though tocj 

late : 



450 



AURORA LEIGH. 



But then, not wisely. I was heavy then. 
And stupid, and distracted with the cries 
Of tortured prisoners in the polished 

brass 
or that Phalarian bull, society. 
Which seems to bellow bravely like ten 

bulls. 
But, if you listen, moans and cries in- 
stead 
Despairingly, like victims tossed and 

gored 
And trampled by their hoofs. I heard 

the cries 
Too close : I could not hear the angels 

lift 
A fold of rustling air, nor what they said 
To help my pity. I beheld the world 
As one great famishing carnivorous 

mouth, — 
A h ige, deserted, callow, blind, bird 

Thing, 
With piteous open beak that hurt my 

heart. 
Till down upon the filthy ground I drop- 
ped. 
And tore the violets up to get the worms. 
Worms, worms, was all my cry : an 

open mouth, 
A gross want, bread to fill it to the lips, 
No more ! That poor men narrowed 

their demands 
To such an end. was virtue, I supposed, 
Adjudicating th.it to sec it so 
Was reason. Oil, I did not push the case 
Up iiigher, and ponder how it answers 

when 
The ricli take up the same cry for them- 
selves. 
Professing equally, — ' an open mouth 
A gross need, food lo fill us, and no 

more.' 
Why tliat's so far from virtue, only vice 
Can find excuse for't ! That makes 

libertines : 
And slurs our cruel streets from end to 

end 
With eighty thousand women in one 

smile. 
Who only smile at night beneath the 

gas : 
The body's satisfaction and no more, 
Is used for argn nent against the soul's. 
Here too ; tha A'ant, here too. implies 

the right. 



— How dark I stood that morning in the 
sun. 

My best Aurora, though I saw your eyes. 

When first you told me , . oh, I recollect 

The sounds, and how you lifted your 
snuU hand, 

And how your white dress and your 
burnished curls 

Went greatening round you in the still 
blue air, 

As if an inspiration from within 

Had blown them all out when you spoke 
tlie words. 

Even these, — ' You will not compass 
your poor ends 

' Of barley -feeding and material case, 

' Without the poet's individualism 

' To work your universal. It takes a soul, 

' To move a body, — it takes a high- 
souled man, 

' To move the masses . . even to a clean- 
/ er style : 

' It takes the ideal, to blow an inch in- 
side 

' The dust of the actual : \and your 
Fouriers failed, | 

' Because not poets enough xo imdor- 
stand 

' That life develops from within.' I say 

Your words, — I could say other words of 
yours ; 

For none of all your words will let nie 
. SO : 

Like sweet verbena which, being brushed 
against. 

Will hold us three hours after by the 
smell 

In spite of long walks upon windy hills. 

But these words dealt in sharper per- 
fume, — these 

Were ever on me, stinging through my 
dreams. 

And saying themselves for ever o'er my 
acts 

Like some unhappy verdict. That I 
failed. 

Is certain. Style or no style, to con- 
trive 

The swine's propulsion toward the pre- 
cipice. 

Proved easy and plain. I subtly organ- 
ised 

And ordered, built the cards up lilgli 
and higher, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



467 



rill, some one breathing, all fell flat 

again ! 
In setting right society's wide wrong, 
Merc life 's so fatal ! So I failed indeed 
Once, twice, and oftener, — hearing 

through the rents 
Of oh-itinate purpose, still those words of 

yours. 
' You 'ivill not covtpass your ^oor ends , 

not you /' 
But harder than you said them ; every 

time 
Still farther from your voice, vmtil they 

came 
To overcrow me with triumphant scorn 
Which vexed me to resistance. Set down 

this 
For condemnation, — I was guilty here : 
I stood upon my deed and fought my 

doubt. 
As men will, — for I doubted, — till at last 
My deed gave way beneath me suddenly 
And lett me what 1 am. The curtain 

dropped, 
My part quite ended, all the footlights 

quenched. 
My own soul hissing at me through the 

dark, 
I. ready for confession. — I was wrong, 
I've sorely failed, I've slipped the ends 

of life, 
I yield, you have conquered.' 

' Stay,' I answered him ; 
' I've something for your hearing, also. 1 
Have failed too.' 

' You !' he said, ' you're very great ; 
The sadness of your greatness fits you 

well : 
As if the plume upon a hero's casque 
Should nod a shadow upon his victor 

face.' 
I took him up austerely, — ' You have 

read 
My book, but not my heart ; for recol- 
lect, 
'Tis writ in Sanscrit which you' bungle 

at. 
I've surely failed, I know, if failure 

means 
To look back sadly on work gladly 

done, — 
To wander on my mountains of Delight, 
So calica, (I can remember a friend's 

words 



As well as you, sir,) weary and in want 

Of even a sheep-path, thinking bitterly. . 

Well, well ! no matter. I but say so 
much. 

To keep you, Romney Leigh, from say- 
ing more. 

And let you feel 1 ajn not so high in- 
deed. 

That I can bear to have you at my 
foot.— 

Or safe, that I can help you. That June- 
day, 

Too deeply sunk in craterous sunsets 
now 

For you or me to dig it up alive ; 

To pluck it out all bleeding with spent 
flame 

At the roots, before those moralising 
stars 

We have got instead, — that poor lost 
day, you said 

Some words as truthful as the thing of 
mine 

You cared to keep in memory : and I 
hold 

If I, that day, and, being the girl I wa.s. 

Had shown a gentler spirit, less arro- 
gance. 

It had not hurt me. You will scarce 
mistake 

The point here. I but only think, you 
see. 

More justly, that's more humbly, of my- 
self. 

Than when I tried a crown on and 
supposed . . . 

Nay. laugh sir, — I'll laugh with you ! — 
pray you, laugh. 

I've had so many birthdays since that 
day, 

I've learnt to prize mirth's opportuni- 
ties. 

Which come too seldom. Was it you 
who said 

I was not changed ? the same Aurora ? 
Ah, 

We could laugh there, too ! Why, 
Ulysses' dog 

Knew him, and wagged his tail and 
died : but if 

I had owned a dog, I too, before my 
Troy, 

And, if you brought him here, . . I war- 
rant you 



4CS 



AURORA LEIGH. 



He'd look into my face, bark lustily. 

And live on stoutly, as the creatures will 

Whose spiriu are not troubled by long 
loves. 

A dog would never know me, I'm so 
changed. 

Much less a friend . . except you're mis- 
led 

By the colour of the hair, the trick of 
the voice. 

Like that Aurora Leigh's.' 

' Sweet trick of voice ! 

I would be a dog for this, to know it at 
last. 

And die upon the falls of it. O love, 

best Aurora ! are you then so sad. 
You scarcely had been sadder as my 

wife ! ' 

'Your wife, sir! I must certainly be 
changed 

If I, Aurora, can have said a thing 

So light, it catches at the knightly spurs 

Of a noble gentleman like Romney 
Leigh, 

And trips him from his honourable sense 

Of what befits ' . . 

' You wholly misconceive,' 

He answered. 

I returned, — ' I'm glad of it : 

But keep from misconception, too, your- 
self : 

1 am not humbled to so low a point, 
Nor so far saddened. If I am sad at 

all. 
Ten layers of birthdays on a woman's 

head 
Are apt to fossilise her girlish mirth. 
Though ne'er so merry ; I am perforce 

more wise 
And that, in truth, means sadder. For 

the rest. 
Look here, sir : I was right upon the 

whole 
That birthday morning. 'Tis impossible 
To get at men excepting through their 

souls. 
However open their carnivorous jaws : 
And poets get directlier at the soul. 
Than any of your ceconomists : — for 

which 
You must not overlook the poet's work 
When scheming for the world's necessi- 
ties. 



The soul's the way. Not even Christ 

Himself 
Can save man else than as He holds 

man's soul ; 
And therefore did He come into our 

flesh. 
As some wise hunter creeping on his 

knees 
With a torch, into the blackness of a 

cave. 
To face and quell the beast ihere, — take 

the soul. 
And so possess the whole man, body and 

.soul. 
I said, so far, right, yes ; not farther, 

though : 
We both were wrong thut June-day, — 

both as wrong 
As an east wind had been. I who talked 

of art. 
And you who grieved for all men's griefs 

. . . what then ? 
We surely made too small a part for God 
In these things. What we are, imports 

us more 
Than what we cat ; and life, you've 

granted me. 
Develops from within But innermost 
Of the inmost, most intei"ior of the in- 
terne, 
God claims his own, Divine humanity 
Renewing nature,— or the piercingest 

verse, 
Prest in by subtlest poet, still must keep 
As much upon the outside of a man 
As the very bowl in which he dips his 

beard. 

— And then, . . the rest ; I cannot surely 

speak. 
Perhaps I doubt more than you doubted 

then. 
If I, the poet's veritable charge. 
Have borne upon my forehead. If 1 

have 
It might feel somewhat liker to a crown. 
The foolish green one even.— All, 1 tiiiiik. 
And chieily when the sun shines, that 

I've failed. 
But what then, Romney ? Though wc 

fail indeed. 
You . . I . . a score of such weak work . 

er.s, . . He 
Fails never. If He cannot work by us. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



469 



He will work over its. Does He want 

a man, 
Much less a woman, think you ? Every 

time 
'J'he star winks there, so many souls are 

born. 
Who all shall work too. Let our own 

lie calm : 
We should be ashamed to sit beneath 

those stars. 
Impatient that we're nothing. 

' Could we sit 

Just so for ever, sweetest friend,' he said, 

' My failure would seem better than suc- 
cess. 

And yet indeed your book has dealt 
with me 

More gently, cousin, than you ever will ! 

The book brought down entire the 
bright June-day, 

And set me wandering in the garden- 
walks. 

And let me watch the garland in a place. 

You blushed so . . nay, forgive me ; do 
not stir : 

I only thank the book for what it taught, 

And what, permitted. Poet, doubt your- 
self. 

But never doubt that you're a poet to 
me 

From henceforth. You have written 
poems, sweet. 

Which moved me in secret, as the sap 
is moved 

In still March-branches, signless as a 
stone : 

But this last book o'ercame me like soft 
rain 

Which falls at midnight, when the 
tightened bark 

Breaks out into unhesitating buds 

And sudden protestations of the spring. 

In all your other books, 1 saw but yoti : 

A man may see the moon so, in a pond. 

And not the nearer therefore to the 
moon. 

Nor use the sight . . except to drown 
himself. 

And so I forced my heart back from the 
sight. 

For what had /, 1 thought, to do with her, 

Aurora . . Romney ? But, in this last 
book. 



You showed mc something separate from 

yourself, 
Beyond you, and I bore to take it in, 
And let it draw mc You hare shown 

me truths, 
O June-day friend, that help me now at 

night 
When June is over ! truths not yours, 

indeed. 
But set within my reach by means of 

you, 
Presented by your voice and verse the 

way 
To take them clearest. Verily I was 

wrong ; 
And verily many thinkers of this age, 
Ay, many Christian teachers, half in 

heaven. 
Are wrong in just my sense who under- 
stood 
Our natural world too insularly, as if 
No spiritual counterpart completed it 
Consummating its meaning, rounding 

all 
To justice and perfection, line by line, 
Form by form, nothing single nor alone. 
The great below clenched by the great 

above. 
Shade here authenticating substance 

there. 
The body proving spirit, as the effect 
The cause : we meantime being too 

grossly apt 
To hold the natural, as dogs a bone, 
(Though reason and nature beat us in 

the face) 
So obstinately, that we'll break our 

teeth 
Or ever we let go. For everywhere 
We're too materialistic, — eating clay 
(Like men of the west) instead of 

Adam's corn 
And Noah's wine; clay by handfuls, 

clay by lumps. 
Until we're filled up to the throat with 

clay. 
And grow the grimy colour of the 

ground 
On which we are feeding. Ay, materi- 
alist 
The age's name is. God himself, with 

some, 
Ts apprehended as the bare result 
Of what his hand materially has made. 



}70 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Expressed in such an algebraic sign 
Called God ; — that is, to put it other- 
wise. 
They add up nature to a naught of God 
And cross the quotient. There are 

many even 
Whose names are written in the Chris- 
tian church 
To no dishonour, — diet still on mud, 
And splash the altars with it. You 

might thuik 
The clay, Christ laid upon their eyelids t 

when. 
Still blind, he called them to the lise of 

sight, 
Remained there to retard its exercise 
With clogging incrustations. Close to 

heaven. 
They see, for mysteries, through the 

open doors. 
Vague puffs of smoke from pots of 

earthenware ; 
And fain would enter, when their time 

shall come, 
With quite another body than St Paul 
Has promised, — husk and chaff, the 

whole barley corn. 
Or where's the resurrection ? ' 

' Thus it is,' 
I sighed. And he resumed with mourn- 
ful face. 
' Beginning so, and filling up with clay 
The wards of thisgreat key, the natural 

world. 
And fumbling vainly therefore at the 

lock 
Of the spiritual, — we feel ourselves shut 

in 
With all the wild-beast roar of struggling 

life, 
The terrors and compunctions of our 

souls. 
As saints with lions, — we who are not 

saints. 
And have no licavenly lordship in our 

stare 
To awe them backward ! Ay, we arc 

forced, so pent. 
To judge the whole too partially, . . 

confound 
Conclusions. Is there any common 

phrase 
Significant, with the adverb heard 

alone, 



The verb being absent, and the pronoun 

out ? 
But we, distracted in the ro.ir of life 
Still insolently at God's adverb snatch. 
And bruit against Him that his thought 

IS void. 
His meaning hopeless, — cry, that every- 
where 
The government is slipping from his 

hand. 
Unless some other Christ.. say Romney 

Leigh . . 
Come up and toil and moil, and change 

the world. 
Because the Fii-st has proved inadequate. 
However we talk bigly of His work 
And piously of His person. We blas- 
pheme 
At last, to finish our doxology. 
Despairing on the earth for which He 

died.' 
'So now I asked, 'you have more hope 
of men ? 

' I hope,' he answered : ' I am come to 

think 
That God will have his work done, as 

you said. 
And that we need not be disturbed too 

much 
For Romney Leigh or others having 

failed 
With this or that quack nostrum, — 

recipes 
For keeping summits by annulling 

depths. 
For wrestling with luxurious lounging 

sleeves. 
And acting heroism without a scratch. 
We fail, — what, then? Aurora, if I 

smiled 
To see you, in your lovely morning- 
pride. 
Try on the poet's wreath which suits 

the noon, 
(Sweet cousin, walls must get tlio 

weather-stain 
Before they grow the ivy !) certainly 
1 stood myself there worthier of con- 
tempt, 
Self-rated, in disastrous arrogance, 
As competent to sorrow for manknid 
And even their odds. A man may well 

despair. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



471 



Who counts himself so needful to suc- 
cess. 
I failed. I throw the remedy back on 

God, 
And sit down here beside you in good 

hope.' 
•And yet. take heed,' I answered, 'lest 

we lean 
Too dangerously on the other side. 
And so fail twice. Be sure, no earnest 

work 
Of any honest creature, howbeit weak. 
Imperfect, ill-adapted, fails so much. 
It is not gathered as a grain of sand 
To enlarge the sum of human action used 
For carrying out God's end. No crea- 
ture works 
So ill, observe, that therefore he's 

cashiered. 
The honest earnest man must stand and 

work. 
The woman also ; otherwise she drops 
At once below the dignity of man. 
Accepting serfdom. Free men freely 

work. 
Whoever fears God, fears to sit at ease.' 



Who makes the point, agreed to leave th« 

join : 
And if a man should cry, ' I want a pin, 
' And 1 must make it straigluway, head 

and point,' 
His wisdom is not worth the pin he 

wants. 
Seven men to a pin, — and not a man too 

much ! 
Seven generations, haply, to this world. 
To right it visibly a finger's breadth. 
And mend its rents a little. Oh, to storm 
And say, ' This world here is intolerable ; 
' I will not eat this corn, nor drink this 

wine, 
' Nor love this woman, flinging her soul 
' Without a bond for 't as a lover should, 
' Nor use the generous leave of happiness 
' As not too good for using generously' — 
(Since virtue kindles at the touch of joy. 
Like a man's cheek laid on a woman's 

hand. 
And God, who knows it, looks for quick 

returns 
From joys) to stand and claim to have 

a life 
Beyond the bounds of the individual 

man. 
And raze all personal cloisters of the 

soul 
To build up public stores and magazines. 
As if God's creatures otherwise were lost. 
The builder surely saved by any means ! 
To think, — I have a pattern on my nail. 
And I will carve the world new after it. 
And solve so, these hard social ques- 
tions, — nay. 
Impossible social questions, — since their 

roots 
Strike deep in Evil's own existence here. 
Which God permits because the ques- 
tion 's hard 
To abolish evil nor attaint free-will. 
Ay, hard to God, but not to Romney 

Leigh ! 
For Romney has a pattern on his nail 
(Whatever may be lacking on the Mount) 
And not being overnice to separate 
What's element from what's con ventioii, 

hastes 
By line on line to draw you out a world. 
Without your help indeed, unless you 

take 
His yoke upon you and will learn of him. 



472 



AURORA LEIGH. 



So much he has to teach ! so good a 
world! 

The same, the whole creation's groaning 
for! 

No rich nor poor, no gain nor loss nor 
stint. 

No potage in it able to exclude 

A brother's birthright, and no right of 
birth, 

The potage — both secured to every man. 

And perfect virtue dealt out like the 
rest 

Gratuitously, with the soup at six. 

To whoso does not seek it.' 

' Softly, sir,' 

I interrupted, — ' I had a cousin once 

I held in reverence. If he strained too 
wide. 

It was not to take honour but to give 
help ; 

The gesture was heroic. If his hand 

Accomplished nothing . . (well, it is not 
proved) 

That empty hand thrown impotently out 

Were sooner caught, I think, by One in 
heaven. 

Than many a hand that reaped a har- 
vest in 

And keeps the scythe's glow on it. 
Pray you, then. 

For my sake merely, use less bitterness 

In speaking of my cousin.' 

' Ah,' he said, 

' Aurora! when the prophet beats the 
ass. 

The angel intercedes.' He shook his 
head — 

' And yet to mean so well and fail so 
foul, 

Expresses ne'er another beast than man ; 

The antithesis is human. Hearken, dear; 

There's too much abstract willing, pur- 
posing, 

In this poor world. We talk by aggre- 
gates. 

And think by systems ; and, being used 
to face 

Our evils in statistics, are inclined 

To cap them with unreal remedies 

Drawn out in haste on the other side the 
slate.' 

' That's true,' I answered, fain to throw 
\ip thought. 



to J 



And make a game oft, — yes, we gene- 
ralise 
Enough to please you. If we pray at all. 
We pray no longer for our daily bread. 
But next centenary's harvests. If we 

give. 
Our cup of water is not tendered till 
We lay down pipes and found a Com- 
pany 
With Branches. Ass or angel, 'tis the 

same : 
A woman cannot do the thing she ought. 
Which means whatever perfect thing 

she can. 
In life, in art, in science, but she fears 
'I'o let the perfect action take her part 
And rest there : she must prove what I 

she can do 
Before she does it, — prate of woman's 

rights. 
Of woman's mission, woman's function, 

till 
The men (who are prating too on their i 

side) cry, 
' A woman's function plainly is 

talk.' 
Poor souls, they are very reasonably i 

vexed; 
They cannot hear each other speak.' 

' And you. 
An artist, judge so ?' 

' I, an artist, — yes. 
Because, precisely, I'm an artist, sir. 
And woman, — if another sate in sight, 
I'd whisper, — Soft, my sister! not a^ 

word ! 
By speaking we prove only we can speak : 
VVhich he, the man here, never doubted. 

What 
He doubts is whether we can do the 

thing 
With decent grace we've not yet doncj 

at all. 
Now, do it ; bring your statue, — you 

have room ! 
He'll see it even by the starlight here 
And if 'tis e'er so little like the god 
Who looks out from the marble silently 
Along the track of his own shining dan 
Through the dusk of ages, — there's nt 

need to speak ; 
The universe shall henceforth speak foi 

you. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



473 



And witness, 'She who did this thing, 

was born 
To do it, — claims her license in her 

work.' 
— And so with more works. Who cures 

the plague. 
Though twice a woman, shall be called 

a leech ; 
Who rights a land's finances, is excused 
For touching coppers, though her hands 

be white, — 
But we, we talk !' 

' It is the age's mood,' 
He said ; ' we boast, and do not. We 

put up 
Hostelry signs where'er we lodge a day. 
Some red colossal cow with mighty 

paps 
A Cyclops' fingers could not strain to 

milk : 
Then bring out presently our saucer-full 
Of curds, We want more quiet in our 

works. 
More knowledge of the bounds in which 

we work ; 
More knowledge that each individual 

man 
Remams an Adam to the general race. 
Constrained to see, like Adam, that he 

keep 
His personal state's condition honestly. 
Or vain all thoughts of his to help the 

world. 
Which still must be developed from its 

one 
If bettered in its many. We indeed, 
Who think to lay it out new like a park. 
We take a work on us which is not 

man's. 
For God alone sits far enough above 
To speculate so largely. None of us 
(Not Romney Leigh) is mad enough to 

say. 
We'll have a grove of oaks upon that 

slope >- 

And sink the need of acorns. Govern- 
ment, 
If veritable and lawful, is not given 
By imposition of the foreign hand. 
Nor chosen from a pretty pattern-book 
Of «ome domestic idealogue who sits 
And coldly chooses empire, where as 

well 



He might republic. Genuine govern- 
ment 
Is but the expression of a nation, good 
Or less good, — even as all society, 
Howe'er unequal, monstrous, crazed, 

and cursed. 
Is but the expres-sion of men's single 

lives, 
The loud sum of the silent units. What, 
We'd change the aggregate and yet 

retam 
Each separate figure ? Whom do we 

cheat by that ? 
Now, not even Romney.' 

'Cousin, you are sad. 

Did all your social labor at Leigh Hall 

And elsewhere, come to nought then ? ' 

' It was nought,' 

He answered mildly. 'There is room 

indeed 
For statues still, in this large world of 

God's, 
But not for vacuums, — so I am not sad : 
Not sadder than is good for what I am. 
My vain phalanstery dissolved itself; 
My men and women of disordered lives, 
I brought in orderly to dine and sleep. 
Broke up those waxen masks I made 

them to wear. 
With fierce contortions of the natural 

face ; 
And cursed me for my tyrannous con- 
straint 
In forcing crooked creatures to live 

straight : 
And set the country hounds upon my 

back 
To bite and tear me for my wicked 

deed 
Of trying to do good without the church 
Or even the squires, Aurora. Do you 

mmd 
Your ancient neighbours? The great 

book-club teems 
With 'sketches,' ' summaries,' and 'last 

tracts ' but twelve. 
On socialistic troublers of close bonds 
Betwixt the generous rich and grateful 

poor. 
The vicar preached from ' Revelations,' 

(till 
The doctor woke) and found me with 
I ' the frogs ' 



474 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Oa three successive Sundays ; ay, and 
stopped 

To weep a little (for he's getting old) 

That such perdition should o'ertake a 
man 

Of such fair acres, — in the parish, too ! 

He printed his discourses ' by request,' 

And if your book shall sell as his did, 
then 

Your verses are less good than I sup- 
pose. 

The women of the neighbourhood sub- 
scribed. 

And seat me a copy bound in scarlet silk. 

Tooled edges, blazoned with the arms of 
Leigh : 

I own that touched me.' 

' What, the pretty ones ? 

Poor Romney ! ' 

' Otlierwise the effect was small. 

I had my windows broken once or twice 

By liberal peasants naturally incensed 

At sucii a vexer of Arcadian peace. 

Who would not let men call their wives 
their own 

To kick like Britons, and made ob- 
stacles 

When things went smoothly as a baby 
drugged. 

Toward freedom and starvation ; bring- 
ing down 

The wicked London tavern-thieves and 
drabs 

To affront the blessed hillside drabs and 
thieves 

With mended morals, quotha, -^ fine 
new lives ! — 

My windows paid for't. I was shot at, 
once. 

By an active poacher who had hit a 
hare 

From the other barrel, (tired of springc- 
ing game 

So long upon my acres, undisturbed. 

And restless for the country's virtue,-^ 
yet 

He missed me) — ay, and pelted very oft 

In riding through the village. ' There 
he goes 

' Who'd drive away our Christian gen- 
tlefolks, 

' To catcli us undefended in the trap 

• He baits with poisonous cheese, aiid 
lock us up 



' In tiiat pernicious prison of Leigh Hall 
• With all his murderers ! Give another 

name 
' And say Leigh Hell, and burn it up 

with fire.' 
.A.nd so they did at List, .\iirora. ' 

' Did ?• 

' You never heard it, cousin ? Vincent's 

news 
Came stinted, then.' 

' They did ? they burnt Leigh Hall T 

' You're sorry, dear Aurora ? Yes 

indeed. 
They did it perfectly : a thorough 

work. 
And not a failure, this time. Let us 

grant 
'Tis somewhat easier, though, to burn a 

house 
Than build a system : — yet that's easy, 

too. 
In a dream. Books, pictures, — ay, the 

pictures! what. 
You think your dear Vandykes would 

give them pause ? 
Our proud ancestral Leighs with those 

peaked beards. 
Or bosoms white as foam thrown up on 

rocks 
From the old-spent wave. Such calm 

defiant looks 
They flared up with ! now nevermore 

to twit 
The bones in the family- vault with ugly 

death. 
Not one was rescued, save the Lady 

Maud, 
Who threw you down, that morning you 

were born. 
The undeniable lineal mouth and chin 
To wear for ever for her gracious sake ; 
For which good deed I saved her : the 

rest wen t : 
And you, you're sorry, cousin. Well. 

for me. 
With all my phalan.sterians safely out, 
(Poor hearts, they helped the burners, 

it was said. 
And certainly a few clapped hands and 

yelled) 
The ruin did not hurt me as it might, — • 
As when for instance 1 was hurt one day 



AURORA LEIGH. 



475 



A certain letter being destroyed. In 

fact, 
To see the great house flare so . . oaken 

floors, 
Our fathers made so fine with rushes 

once 
I'cfore our mothers furbished them with 

trains. 
Carved wainscoats, panelled walls, the 

favourite slide 
For draining off a martyr, for a rogue) 
The echoing galleries, half a half-mile 

long. 
And all the various stairs that took j'ou 

up 
And took you down, and took you round 

about 
Upon their slippery darkness, recollect. 
All helping to keep up one blazing jest ; 
The flames through all the casements 

pushing forth 
Like red-hot devils crinkled into snakes. 
Ail signifying, — 'Look you, Romney 

Leigh, 

• We save the people from your saving, 

here, 

• Yet so as by fire ! we make a pretty 

show 
' Besides, — and that's the best you've 
ever done.' 

— To see this, almost moved myself to 

clap ! 
The ' Vi; le et plaude ' came too with 

effect 
When, in the roof fell, and the fire that 

paased. 
Stunned momently beneath the stroke 

of slates 
And tumbling rafters, rose at once and 

roared, 
And wrapping the whole house, (which 

disappeared 
In a mounting whirlwind of dilated 

flame,) 
Blew upward, straight, its drift of fiery 

chaff 
In the face of heaven, . . which blench- 
ed, and ran up higher.' 

• Poor Romney !' 

' Sometimes when I dream,' he said, 

• i hear the silence after, 'twas so still. 



For all those wild beasts, yelling, curs- 
ing round. 
Were suddenly silent, while you counted 

five. 
So silent, that you heard a young bird 

fall 
From the top-nest in the neighbouring 

rookery, 
Through edging over-rashly toward the 

light. 
The old rooks had already fled too far. 
To hear the screech they fled with, 

though you saw 
Some flying still, like scatterings of dead 

leaves 
In autumn-gusts, seen dark against the 

sky : 
All flying, — ousted, like the house of 

Leigh. 

Dear Romney 1 

' Evidently 'twould have been 
A fine sight for a poet, sweet, like you. 
To make' the verse blaze after. I myself. 
Even I, felt something in the grand old 

trees. 
Which stood that moment like brute 

Druid gods 
Amazed upon the rim of ruin, where. 
As into a blackened socket, the great fire 
Had dropped, — still throwing up splin- 
ters now and then 
To show them grey with all their centu- 
ries, 
Left there to witness that on such .1 day 
The House went out.' 



' • Ah !' 
•While you counted five 
I seemed to feel a little like a Leigh. — 
But then it passed, Aurora. A child ' 

cried. 
And I had enough to think of what to do 
With all those houseless wretches in the 

dark. 
And ponder where they'd dance the 

next time, they 
Who had burnt the viol.' 

' Did you think of that ? 
Who burns his viol will not dance, 1 

know, 
To cymbals, Romney.' 

• O my sweet sad voice,' 



476 



AURORA LEIGH. 



He cried,—' O voic« that speaks and 

overcomes ! 
The sun is silent, but Aurora speaks.' 

• Alas,' I said ; ' I speak I know not 

what : 
I'm back in childhood, thinking as a 

child, 
A foolish fancy — will it make you smile ? 
I shall not from the window of my room 
Catch sight of those old chimneys any 

more. 

' No more,' he answered. ' If you pushed 

one day 
Through all the green hills to our father's 

iiouse. 
You'd come upon a great charred circle 

where 
The patient earth was singed an acre 

round ; 
With one stone-stair, symbolic of my 

life. 
Ascending, winding, leading up to 

nought ! 
'Tis worth a poet's seeing. Will you 

go?' 

I made no answer. Had I any right 

To weep with this man, that I dared to 
speak 1 

A woman stood between liis soul and 
mine. 

And waved as off from touching ever- 
more 

With those unclean white hands of hers. 
Enough. 

We had burnt our viols and were silent. 
So. 

The silence lengthened till it pressed. I 
spoke. 

To breathe : ' I think you were ill after- 
ward.' 

More ill,' he answered, , ' had been 

scarcely ill. 
I hoped this feeble fumbling at life's 

knot 
Might end concisely, — but I failed to 

die, 
As formerly I failed to live, — and thus 
Grew willing, having tried all othtf 

ways. 



To try just God's. Humility's so good. 
When pride's impossible. Mark us, 

how we make 
Our virtues, cousin, from our wot n- out 

sins, 
Which smack of them from henceforth. 

Is it right. 
For instance, to wed here while you 

love there ? 
And yet because a man sins once, the 

sin 
Cleaves to him, in necessity to sin. 
That if he sinned not so, to damn him- 
self, 
He sins so, to damn others with himself : 
And thus to wed here, loving there, be- 
comes 
A duty. Virtue buds a dubious leaf 
Round mortal brows ; your ivy's better, 

dear. 
— Yet she, 'tis certam, is my very wife. 
The very lamb left mangled by the 

wolves 
Through my own bad shepherding : and 

could I choose 
But take her on my shoulder past this 

stretch 
Of rough, uneasy wilderness, poor lamb. 
Poor child, poor child? — Aurora, my 

beloved, 
I will not ve.\ you any more to-night, 
But having spoken what I came to say, 
I'he rest sliall please you. What she 

can in me, — 
Protection, tender liking, freedom, ease. 
She shall have surely, liberally, for her 
And hers, Aurora. Small amends they'll 

make 
For hideous evils which she had not 

known 
Except by me, and for this imminent 

loss. 
This forfeit presence of a gracious friend. 
Which also she must forfeit for my sake. 
Since, .... drop your hand in mine a 

moment, sweet, 
We're parting ! Ah, my snowdrop, 

what a touch. 
As if the wind had swept it off! you 

grudge 
Your gelid sweetness on my palm but 

so, 
A moment? angry, that I could not 

bear 



AURORA LEIGH: 



477 



You . . speaking, breathing, living, side 

by side 
With some one called my wife . . and 

live, myself? 
Nay, be not cruel — you must under- 
stand i 
Your lightest footfall on a floor of mine 
Would shake the house, my lintel being 

uncrossed 
'Gainst angels : henceforth it is night 

with me, 
And so, henceforth, I put the shutters 

up: 
Auroras must not come to spoil my 

dark.' 

He «miled so feebly, with an empty 

hand 
Stretched sideways from me, — as indeed 

he looked 
To any one but me to give him help, — 
And while the moon came suddenly out 

full. 
The double rose of our Italian moons, 
Sufficient plainly for the heaven and 

earth, 
(T«hc stars, struck dumb and washed 

away in dews 
Of glory, and the mountains steeped 
In divine languor) he the man, ap- 
peared 
So pale and patient, like the marble 

man 
A sculptor puts his personal sadness in 
Jib join his grandeur of ideal thought, — 
As if his mallet struck me from my 

height 
Of passionate indignation, I who had 

risen 
Pale, — doubting, paused Was 

Romney mad indeed? 
Had all this wrong of heart made sick 

the brain ? 

Then quiet, with a sort of tremulous 

pride, *■ 

' Go, cousin,' I said coldly ; ' a farewell 
Was sooner spoken 'twixt a pair of 

friends 
In those old days, than seems to suit you 

now. 
Howbeit, since then, I've writ a Ijook 

or two, 



I'm somewhat dull still in the manly art 
Of phrase and metaphrase. Why, any 

man 
Can carve a score of white Loves out of 

snow, 
As Buonarotti in my Florence there. 
And set them on the wall in some safe 

shade. 
As safe, sir, as your marriage ! very- 
good : 
Though if a woman took one from the 

ledge 
To put it on the table by her flowers. 
And let it mind her of a certain friend, 
'Twould drop at once,|(so better,) would 

not bear 
Her nail-mark even, where she took it 

up 
A little tenderly ; so best, I say : 
For me, I would not touch the fragile 

thing. 
And risk to spoil it half an hour before 
The sun shall shine to melt it : leave it 

there. 
I'm plain at speech, direct in purpose : 

when 
I speak, you'll take the meaning as it is. 
And not allow for puckerings in the silk 
By clever stitches. I'm a woman, sir. 
And use the woman's figures naturally, 
As you the male license. So, I wish 

you well. 
I'm simply sorry for the griefs you've 

had 
And not for your sake only, but man- 
kind's. 
This race is never grateful : from thft 

first. 
One fills their cup at supper with pure 

wine. 
Which back they give at cross-time on 

a sponge. 
In vinegar and gall.' 

' If gratefuller,* 
He murmured, — ' by so much less pitia- 
ble ! 
God's self would never have come down 

to die, 
Could man have thanked him for it.' 

' Happily 
'Tis patent that, whatever,' I resumed, 
'You suffered from' this thanklessness 
of men. 



47S 



AURORA LEIGH. 



You sink no more than Moses' bulrush- 
boat 
When you once relieved of Moses ; for 

you're light. 
You're light, my cousin 1 which is well 
for you. 

And manly. For myself,— now mark 
me, sir. 

They burnt Leigh Hall ; but if, con- 
summated 

To devils, heightened beyond Lucifers, 

They had burnt instead a star or two of 
those 

Wc saw above there just a moment 
back. 

Before the moon abolished them, — des- 
troyed 

And riddled them in ashes through a 
sieve 

On the head of tlie foundering uni- 
verse, — what then? 

If you and I remained still you and I, 

It 'could not shift our places as mere 
friends. 

Nor render decent you should toss a 
phrase 

Beyond the point of actual feeling ! — 
nay. 

You sliall not interrupt me : as you said. 

We're parting. Certainly, not once or 
twice 

To-night you've mockel me .somewhat, 
or yourself. 

And I, at least, have not deserved it so 

That I should meet it unsurprised. But 
now. 

Enough ; we're parting , . parting. 
Cousin Leigh, 

I wish you well through all the acts of 
life 

And life's relations, wedlock not the 
least. 

And It shall ' please me,' in your words, 
to know 

You yield your wife, protection, free- 
dom, ease. 

And very tender liking. May you live 

So happy with her, Romney, that your 
friends 

May praise her for it. Meantime some 
of us 

Are wholly dull in keeping ignorant 

Of what she has suffered by you, i-nd 
what debt 



Of sorrow your rich love sits down to 

pay : 
But if 'tis sweet for love to pay its debt, 
'Tis sweeter still for love to give its gift, 
And you, be liberal in the sweeter waj', 
You can, I think. At least, as touches 

me. 
You owe her, cousin Romney, no 

amends. 
She is not used to hold my gown so fast. 
You need entreat her now to let it go : 
The lady never was a friend of mine, 
Nor capable, — I thought you knew as 

much,— 
Of losing for your sake so poor a prize 
As such a worthless friendship. Be con- 
tent. 
Good cousin, therefore, both for her and 

you ! 
I'll never spoil your dark, nor dull your 

noon. 
Nor vex you when you're merry, or at 

rest : 
You shall not need to put a shutter up 
To keep out this Aurora, — though your 

north 
Can make Auroras which vex nobody. 
Scarce known from night, I fancied ! let 

me add, 
My larks fly higher than some windows. 

Well, 
You've read your Leighs. Indeed 

'twould shake a house. 
If such as I came in with outstretched 

hand 
Still warm and thrilling from the clasp 

of one . . 
Of one we know, . . to acknowledge, 

palm to palm. 
As mistress there . . the Lady Walde- 

mar.' 

• Now God be with us ' . . with a sudden 

clash 
Of voice he interrupted — 'what name's 

that? 
You spoke a name, Aurora.' 

' Pardon me ; 
I would that,' Romney, I could name 

your wife 
Nor wound you, yet be worthy.' 

' Are we mad V 
He echoed — ' wife ! mine ! Lady Wal- 

demar I 



AURORA LEIGH. 



47 9 



I think you said my wife.' He sprang 
to his feet, 

And threw his noble head back toward 
the moon 

A.S one who swims against a stormy sea, 

A.nd laughed with such a helpless, hope- 
less scorn, 

[ stood and trembled. 

' May God judge me so,* 
He said at last, — * I came convicted 

here, 
A.nd humbled sorely if not enough. I 

came. 
Because this woman from her crystal 

soul 
Had shown me something which a man 

calls light : 
Becaase too, formerly, I sinned by her 
A.S then and ever since I have, by God, 
Through arrogance of nature, — though I 

loved . . 
Whom best, I need not say, . . since that 

is writ 

Too plainly in the book of my misdeeds: 
And thus I came here to abase myself, 
A.nd fasten, kneeling, on her regent 

brows 
\ garland which I startled thence one 

day 
Df her beautiful June-youth. But here 

again 

baffled ! — fail in my abasement as 
My aggrandisement : there's no room 

left for me 
A.t any woman's foot who misconceives 
My nature, purpose, possible actions. 

What 1 
Aj-e you the Aurora who made large my 

dreams 
To frame your greatness ? you conceive 

so small ? 
Vou stand so less than woman, through 

being more, 
And lose your natural instinct, like a 

beast. 
Through intellectual culture? since in- 
deed 
I do not think that any common she 
Would dare adopt such monstrous for- 
geries 
For the legible life-signature of such 
As I, with all my blots : with all my 

blots I 



At last then, peerless cousin, we are 

peers — 
At last we're even. Ah, you've left 

your height, 
And here upon my level we take hands, 
And here I reach you to forgive you, 

sweet. 
And that's a fall, Aurora. Long ago 
You seldom imderstood me,— but before, 
I could not blame you. Then, you only 

seemed 
So high above, you could not see be- 
low ; 
But now I breathe, — but now I pardon 1 

— nay. 
We're parting. Dearest, men have 

burnt my nouse. 
Maligned my motives, — but not one, I 

swear. 
Has wronged my soul as this Aurora has. 
Who called the Lady Waldemar my 

wife. 

' Not married to her ! yet you said ' . . 

' Again ? 
' Nay, read the lines ' (he held a letter 

out) 
' She sent you through me.' 

By the moonlight there, 
I tore the meaning out with passionate 

haste 
Much rather than I read it. Thus it 

ran. 



NINTH BOOK. 

Even thus. I pause to write it out at 

length, 
The letter of the Lady Waldemar. 

' I prayed your cousin Leigh to take you 

this. 
He says he'll do it. After years of love, 
Or what is called so, — when a woman 

frets 
And fools upon one string of a man's 

name, 
And fingers it for ever till it breaks,— 
He may perhaps do for her such thing, 
And she accept it without detriment 
Although she should not love him any 

more. 



48o 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And I, who do not love him, nor love 

you. 
Nor you, Aurora, — choose you shall re- 
pent 
Your most ungracious letter and confess, 
Constrained by his convictions, (he's 

convinced) 
You've wronged me foully. Are you 

made so ill. 
You woman— to impute such ill to me ? 
We both had mothers,— lay in their 

bosom once. 
And, after all, I thank you, Aurora 

Leigh, 
For proving to myself that there are 

things 
I would not do, , . not for my life . . 

nor him . . 
Though something I hare somewhat 

overdone,— 
For instance, when I went to see the 

gods 
One morning on Olympus, with a step 
That shook the thunder from a certain 

cloud. 
Committing myself vilely. Could I think. 
The Muse 1 pulled my heart out from 

my breast 
To soften, had herself a sort of heart, 
And loved my mortal ? He, at least 

loved lier, 
I heard him say so ; 'twas my recom- 
pense. 
When, watching at his bedside fourteen 

days. 
He broke out like a flame at wliiles 
Between the heats of fever . . ' Is it thou? 
' Breathe closer, sweetest mouth ! ' and 

when at last 
The fever gone, the wasted face extinct 
As if it irked him much to know me 

there. 
He said, ' 'Twaskind, 'twas good, 'twas 

womanly,' 
(And fifty praises to excuse no love) 
' But was the picture safe he had ven- 
tured for ? ' 
And then, half wanderin2 . . ' I have 

loved her well, 
' Although she could not love me.' — 

' Say instead,' 
1 answered, 'she does love you.' — 'Twas 

my turn 
To rave : I would have married him so 

changed. 



Althougii the world had jeered me prop- 
erly 
For taking up with Cupid at his worst, 
The silver quiver worn off on his hair. 
' No, no,' he murmured, 'no, she lovesj 

me not ; 
' Aurora Leigh does better: bring hei' 

book 
' And read it softly. Lady Waldemar, , 
' Until I thank your friendship more for' 

that 
'Than even for harder service.' So I 

read 
Your book, Aurora, for an hour that^ 

day : , 

I kept its pauses, marked its emphasis ;] 
My voice, empaled upon its hooks of | 

rhyme, < 

Not once would writhe, nor quiver, noi; 

revolt ; 
I read on calmly, — calmly shut it up, 
Observing, ' There's some merit in thef 

book ; 
' And yet the merit in't is thrown away ; 
' As cliances still with women if we, 

write 
' Or write not: we want string to tie oui 

flowers, I 

• So drop them as we walk, which serve;] 

to show 
'The way we went. Good morning, 

Mister Leigh ; 
'You'll find another reader the nex' 

time. 
' A woman who does better than to love^ 
' 1 hate ; she will do nothing very well 
'Male poets are preferable, straininj ' 

less _ ^ 

'And teaching more.' I triumphed o'e 

you both. 
And left him. 

' When I saw him afterward 
I had read your shameful letter, and m\. 

heart. * 



He came with health recovered, stron; 

though pale, 
Lord Howe and he, a corteous pair oli^ 

friends, *' 

To say what men dare say to women 

when 
Their debtors. But I stopped them will 

a word, 
And proved I had never trodden such . 

road 
To carry so much dirt upon my shoe. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



481 



hen, putting into it something of dis- 
dain, 
asked forsooth his pardon, and my 

own, 
rjr having done no better than to love, 
nd that not wisely,— thougii 'twas long 

ago, 
nd liad been mended radically since, 
lold him, as I tell you now Miss 

Leigh, 
nd proved I took some trouble for his 

sake 
lecause I knew he did not love the 

girl) 
spoil my hands with working in the 

stream 
f that poor bubbling nature, — till she 

went, 
unsigned to one I trusted, my own 

maid, 
ho once had lived full five months in 

my house, 
)ressed hair superbly) with a lavish 

purse 
carry to Australia where she had left 
husband, said she. If the creature 

lied, 
he mission failed, we all do fail and lie 
ore or less — and I'm sorry— which is 

all 
xpected from us when we fail the most 
ud go to church to own it. What I 

meant, 
'as just the best for him, and me, and 

her . . 
sst even for Marian ! — I am sorry for't, 
nd very sorry. Yet my creature said 
le saw her stop to speak in Oxford 

Street 
one . . no matter ! I had sooner cut 
y hand off (though 'twere kissed the 

hour before, 
nd promised a Duke's troth-ring for 

the next) 
han crush her silly head wiih so much 

wrong, 
oor child ! I would have mended it 

with gold, 
ntil it gleamed like St. Sophia's dome 
''hen all the faithful troop lo morning 

prayer : 
ut he, he nipped liie bud of sucli a 

thought 
''ith that cold Leigh look which I fan- 
cied once. 



And broke in, • Henceforth she was called 

his wife. 
' His wife required no succour : he was 

bound 
' To Florence, to resume this broken 

bond ; 
' Enough so. Both were happy, he and 

Howe, 
' To acquit me of the heaviest cliarge of 

all—' 
—At which I shut my tongue against mj 

fly 
And struck liim ; 'Would lie carry, — he 

was just, 
* A letter from me to Aurora Leigh, 
' And ratify from his authentic mouth 
' My answer to her accusation .' ' — ' Yes, 
' If such a letter were prepared in time.' 
— He's just, your cousin, — ay, abhor- 
rently. 
He'd wash his hands in blood to keep 

them clean, 
And so, cold, courteous, a mere gentle- 
man. 
He bowed, we parted 

* Parted. Face no more, 
Voice no more, love no more ! wiped 

wholly out 
Like some ill scholar's scrawl from heart 

and slate.— 
Ay, spit on and so wiped out utterly 
By some coarse scholar ! 1 have been 

too coarse, 
Too iiuman. Have we business, in our 

rank, 
With blood i' the veins ? I will have 

henceforth none, 
Not even to keep the colour at my lip. 
A rose is pink and pretty without blood ; 
Why not a woman ? When we've 

played in vain 
The game, to adore,— we have resources 

still. 
And can play on at leisure, being 

adored : 
Here's Smith already swearing at my 

feet 
Thst I'm the typic She. Away with 

Smith !— 
Smith smacks of Leigh, — and, hence- 
forth I'll admit 
No socialist within three crinolines. 
To live and have his being. But fot 

yon. 
Though insolent your letter and absurd. 



48a 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And though I hate you frankly,— take 
my Smith ! 

For wlien you have seen this famous 
marriage tied, 

A most unspotted Erie to a noble Leigh, 

(His love astray on one lie should not 
love) 

Howbeit you may not want his love, be- 
ware, 

You'll want some comfort. So I leave 
you Smith ; 

Take Smith ! — he talks Leigh's subjects, 
somewhat worse ; 

Adopts a thought of Leigh's, and dwin- 
dles it ; 

Goes leagues beyond, to be no inch be- 
hind ; 

Will mind you of him, as a shoe-string 
may 

Of a man : and women, when they are 
made like you, 

Grow tender to a shoe-string, foot-print 
even. 

Adore averted shoulders in a glass. 

And memories of what, present once, 
was loathed. 

And yet, you loathed not Romney, — 
though you played 

At ' fox and goose' about him with your 
soul : 

Pass over fox, you rub out fox, — ignore 

A feeling, you eradicate it,— the act's 

Identical. 

' 1 wish you joy, Miss Leigh, 
You've made a happy marrirge for your 

friend. 
And all the honour, well-assorted love. 
Derives from you who love him, whom 

he loves I 
You need not wish me joy to think of it, 
I have so much. Observe, Aurora Leigh, 
Your droop of eyelid is the same as his, 
And, but for you, I might have won his 

love, 
And, to you, I have shown my naked 

heart, — 
For which three things I hate, hate, hate 

you. Hush, 
Suppose a fourth I — I cannot choose but 

think 
That, with him, 1 were virtuouser than 

you 
Without him : so I hate you from this 

gulf 



And hollow of my soul, which opei 

out 
To what, except for you, had been n 

heaven, 
And is instead, a place to curse b" 

Love.' 



An active kind of curse. I stood the 

cursed 
Confounded. I had seized and caug 

the sense 
Of the letter with its twenty stingii 

snakes, 
In a moment's sweep of eyesight, and 1 

stood 
Dazed. — ' Ah !— not married ? ' 

' You mistake,' he said, I 
' I'm married. Is not Marian Erie n 

wife ? 
As God sees thing.s, I have a wife ai 

child; 
And I, as I'm a man who homnns Gor! 
Am here to claim them as my child anl 

wife.' 

\ 
I felt it hard to breathe, much less 

speak. 
Nor word of mine was needed. Son< 

one else 
Was there for answering. ' Romney 

she began, 
* My great good angel, Romney.' 

Then at firsi 
I knew that Marian Erie was beautiful 
She stood there, still and pallid as 

saint, 
Dilated, like a saint in ecstacy, 
As if the floating moonshine interposec 
Betwixt her foot and the earth, and rais& 

her up 
To float upon it. ' I had left my child; 
Who sleeps,' she said, ' and havin 

drawn this way 
I heard you speaking, . . friend ! — Coi 

firm me now. 
You take this Marian, such as wickei 

men I 

Have made her, for your honourab'lj 

wife ? ' \ 

The thrilling, solemn, proud, pathetil 
voice. • i 

He stretched his arms out toward th 
thrilling voice, I 

As if to draw it on to his embrace. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



48s 



I take lier as God made her, and as 
men 

1st fail to unmake her, for my hon- 
oured wife.' 

e never raised her eyes, nor took a 

step, 
t stood there in her place, and spoke 

again. 
You take this Marian's child, which 

is her shame 

sight of men and women, for your 

child, 
whom you will not ever feel ashamed ? ' 

le thrilling, tender, proud, pathetic 

voice. 
; stepped on toward it, still with out- 
stretched arms, 

if to quench upon his breast that 

voice. 

May God so father me, as I do him, 
id so forsake me as I let him feel 
5's orphaned haply. Here I take the 

child 
I share my cup, to slumber on my 

knee, 
I play his loudest gambol at my foot, 
( hold my finger in tlie public ways, 
il none shall need inquire, ' Whose 

child is this,'_ 
le gesture saying so tenderly, ' My 

own.' ' 

le stood a moment silent in her place ; 
len turning toward me very slow and 

cold — 
'And you, — what say you? — will you 

blame me much, 
careful for that outcast child of mine, 
:atch this hand that's stretched to me 

and him, 
or dare to leave him friendless in the 

world 
here men have stoned me? Have I 

not the right 
i take so mere an aftermath from life, 
se found so wholly bare? Or is it 

wrong 
5 let your cousin, for a generous bent, 
It out his ungloved fingers among 

briars 
3 set a tumbling bird's nest somewhat 

straight ? 



You will not tell him, though we're inno- 
cent 
We are not harmless, . . and that both 

our harms 
Will stick to his good smooth noble life 

like burrs. 
Never to drop off though he shakes the 

cloak ? 
You've been my friend : you will not now 

be his ? 
You've known him that he's worthy of a 

friend, 
And you're his cousin, lady, after all, 
And therefore more than free to take his 

part. 
Explaining, since the nest is surely 

spoilt. 
And Marian what you know her, — though 

a wife, 
The world would hardly understand her 

case 
Of being just hurt and honest ; while for 

him, 
'Twould ever twit him with his bastard 

child 
And married harlot. Speak, while yet 

there's time : 
You would not stand and let a good 

man's dog 
Turn round and rend him, because his, 

and reared 
Of a generous breed, — and will you let 

his act. 
Because it's generous ? Speak. I'm 

bound to you. 
And I'll be bound by only you, in this * 
The thrilling solemn voice, so passion- 
less. 
Sustained, yet low, without arise or fall, 
As one who had authority to speak, 
And not as Marian. 

I looked up to feci 
If God stood near me, and belield his 

heaven 
Asblue as Aaron's priestly robe apj eaied 
To Aaron when he took it off to die. 
And then I spoke — 'Accept the gift, I 

say, 
My sister Marian, and be satisfied. 
The iiand that gives, has still a soul be- 
hind 
Which will not let it quail for having 

given, 
Though foolish wordlings talk they know 

not what 



484 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Of what they know not. Romney's 

strong enough 
For tliis : do you be strong to know he's 

strong : 
He stands on Right's side ; never flinch 

for him, 
As if he stood on the other. You'll be 

bound 
By me ? I am a woman of repute ; 
No fly-blow gossip ever specked my life ; 
My name is clean and open as this hand. 
Whose glove there's not a man dares 

blab about 
As if he iiad touched it freely. Here's 

my hand 
To clasp your hand, my Marian, owned 

as pure ! 
As pure,~as I'm a woman and a 

Leigh !- 
And, as I'm both, I'll witness to the 

world 
That Romney Leigh is honoured in his 

choice 
Wiio chooses Marian for liis lionoured 

wife.' 

Her broad wild woodland eyes shot out a 

light ; 
Her smile was wonderful for rapture. 

' Thanks, 
My great Aurora.' Forward then she 

sprang. 
And dropping her impassioned spaniel 

head 
With all its brown abandonment of curls 
On Romney's feet, we heard the kisses 

drawn 
Through sobs upon the foot, upon the 

ground — 
',0 Romney ! O my angel !0 unchanged. 
Though since we've parted I Jiave passed 

the grave ! 
But Death itself could only better thee, 
Not change thee \—Thee I do not thank 

at all: 
I but thank God who made thee what 

thou art, 
So wholly godlike.' 

When he tried in vain 
To raise her to his embrace, escaping 

thence 
As any leaping fawn from a huntsman's 

grasp 
She bounded off and 'lighted beyond 

reach. 



Before him with a staglike majesty 
Of soft, serene defiance, — as she knewi 
He could not touch her, so was tolcrai 
He had cared to try. She stood the 

with iier great 
Drowned eyes, and dripping cheeks, ai 

strange sweet smile 
That lived through all, as if one held 

light 
Across a waste of waters, — shook h 

head 
To keep some thoughts down deeper 

her soul,— 
Then, white and tranquil like a sunune 

cioud 
Which, having rained itself to a tan 

peace. 
Stands still in lieaven as if it ruled tli 

day, 
Spoke out again — ' Although, my gene' 

ous friend, 
Since last we met and parted 3'ou're ui 

changed. 
And, having promised faith to Mari.l 

Erie, 
Maintain it, as she were not changed 

all: 
And though that's worthy, though that 

full of balm 
To any conscious spirit of a girl 
Who once has loved you as I loved yc 

once, — 
Yet still it will not make her . . if she 

dead, 
And gone away where none can give 

take 
In marriage, — able to revive, return 
And wed you, — will it Romney? Here 

the point ; 
O friend, we'll see it plainer: you andj 
Must never, never, never join hands S( 
Nay, let me say it, — for I said it first 
To God, and placed it, rounded to a 

oath, 
Far, far above ihe moon there, at H 

feet, 
As surely as I wept just now atyours,- 
We never, never, never join hands so. 
And now, be patient with me ; do m 

think 
I'm speaking from a false humility. 
The truth is, I am grown so proud witj 

grief, 
And He has said so often through hi 

nights 



AURORA LEIGH. 



48s 



And through his mornings, 'Weep a 

Utile still, 
' Thou foolish Marian, because women 

must, 
' But do not blush at all except for sin,'— 
That I, who felt myself unworthy once 
Vi virtuous Romney and his high-born 

race, 
Have come to learn, . . a woman poor 

or rich, 
Despised or honoured, is a human soul : 
And what her soul is, — that, she is her- 
self. 
Although she should be spit upon of 

men. 
As is the pavenient of the churches 

here, 
Still good enough to pray in. And be- 
ing chaste 
And honest, and inclined to do the 

right. 
And love the truth, and live my life out 

green 
And smooth beneath his steps, I should 

not fear 
To make him thus a less uneasy time 
Than many a happier woman. Very 

proud 
You see me. Pardon, that 1 set a trap 
To hear a confirmation in your voice . . 
Both yours and yours. It is so good to 

know 
'Twas really God who said the same be- 
fore : 
For thus it is in heaven, that first God 

speaks. 
And then his angels. Oh, it does me 

good. 
It wipes me clean and sweet from devil's 

dirt. 
That Romney Leigh should think me 

worthy still 
Of being his true and honourable wife ! 
Heticeforth I need not say, on leaving 

earth, 
I had o glory in it. For the i^st, 
'I'he reason's ready (master, angel, 

friend. 
Be patient with me) wherefore you and I 
Can never, never, never join hands so. 
1 know you'll not be angry like a man 
{Fox yon are none) when I shall tell the 

truth, 
Which is, I do not love you, Romney 
Leigh, 



I do not love you. Ah well! catch my 

hands. 
Miss Leigh, and burn into my eyes with 

yours, — 
I swear 1 do not love him. Did I once? 
'Tis said that women have been bruised 

to death, 
And yet, if once they loved, that love of 

theirs 
Could never be drained out with all their 

blood: 
I've heard such things and pondered. 

Did 1 indeed 
Love once ? or did I only worship ? 

Yes, 
Perhaps, O friend, I set you up so high 
Above all actual good or hope of good 
Or fear of evil, all that could be mine, 
I haply set you above love itself 
And out of reach of these poor women's 

arms. 
Angelic Romney. What was in my 

thought ? 
To be your slave, your help, your toy, 

your tool. 
To be your love . . I never thought of 

that. 
To give you love . . still less. I gave 

you love ? 
I think I did not give j'ou anything ; 
I was but only yours, — upon my knees. 
All yours, in soul and body, in head 

and heart, 
A creature you had taken from the 

ground. 
Still crumbling through your fingers to 

your feet 
To join the dust she came from. Did I 

love. 
Or did I worship? judge, Aurora Leigh ! 
But, if indeed I loved, 'twas long ago, — ■ 
So long ! before the sun and moon were 

made. 
Before the hells were open, — ah, befora 
I heard my child cry in the desert night, 
And knew he had no father. It may 

be 
I'm not as strong as other women are. 
Who, torn and crushed, are not undone 

from love. 
It may be, I am colder than tl;e dead, . 
Who, being dead, love always. But foi 

me 
Once killed, . . this ghost of Marian 

loves no more, 



4S6 



AURORA LEIGH. 



No more . . except the child ! . . no 

more at all. 
I told your cousin, sir. that I was dead ; 
And now, she thinks I'll get up from my 

grave. 
And wear my chin-cloth for a wedding 

veil. 
And glide along the churchyard like a 

bride, 
"While all the dead keep whisjicring 

through the withes, 
' You would be better iu your place witii 

us, 
' You pitiful corruption ! ' At the 

thought, 
The damps breaks out on nic like lep- 
rosy 
Although I'm clean. Ay, clean as Ma- 
rian Erie : 
As Marian Leigh, I know, I were iK)t 

clean : 
I have not so much life that I should 

love. 
. . Except the child. Ah God! I could 

not bear 
To see my darling on a good man's 

knees 
And know by such a look, or such a 

sigh, 
Or such a silence, that he thought some- 
times. 
' This child was fathered by some cursed 

wretch ' . . 
For, Romney,— angels are less teuder- 

wise 
Than God and mothers : even yatt 

would think 
What we think never. He is ours, the 

Child ; 
And we would sooner vex a soul in 

heaven 
By coupling with it the dead body's 

thought. 
It left behind it iu a last month's grave, 
Than, in my child, see other than . . 

my child. 
We only, never call him fatherless 
Who has God and his mother. O my 

babe, 
My pretty, pretty blossom, an ill-wind 
Once blew upon my breast ! can any 

think 
I'd have another,— one called happier, 
A fathered child, with father's love and 

race 



That's worn as bold and open as a smile, 
'I'o vex my darling when he's asked his 

name 
And has no answer? What ! a haulier 

child 
Than mine, my best, — who laughed so 

loud to-night 
He could not sleep for pastime? Nay, 

I swear 
By life and love, that, if I lived like 

some, 
And loved like . . some . . ay, loved 

yon, Komney Leigh, 
As some love (eyes that have wept so 

nuich, see clear) 
I've loom for no more children in my 

arms. 
My kisses are all melted on one mcuth, 
1 would not push my darling to a stool 
To dandle babies. Here's a hand shall 

keep 
For ever clean without a marriage-ring, 
To tend my boy until he cease to need 
( )ne steadying finger of it, and desert 
(Not miss) his mother's lap, to sit with 

men. 
And when I miss him (not he me) I'll 

come 
And say, ' Now give me some of Rom- 

ney's work. 
To help your outcast orphans of the 

world. 
And comfort grief with grief.' For you, 

meantime, 
Most noble Romney, wed a noble wife, 
And open on eacii other your great 

souls.— 
I need i.ot farther bless you. If I dared 
But strain and touch her in her upper 

sphere 
And say, ' Come down to Romney —pay 

my debt ! ' 
I should be joyful with the stream of 

joy 
Sent through me. But tlie moon is in 

my face . . 
I dare not. — though I guess the name 

he loves ; 
I'm learned with my studies of old daj-s. 
Remembering how he crushed hisunder- 

When some one came and spoke, or did 

not come : 
Aurora, I could touch her with my hand. 
And fly, because I dara not.' 



AURORA LEIGH. 



487 



She was gone. 
He smiled so sternly that I spoke in 

in haste. 
' Forgive her — she sees clearly for her- 

se]f:_ 
Her instinct's holy.' 

' / forgive? ' he said, 
' I only marvel how she sees so sure, 
While others ' . . there he paused, — 

then hoarse, abrupt, — 
• Aurora, you forgive us, her and me? 
For her. tlie thing she sees, poor loyal 

child. 
If once corrected by the thing I know. 
Had been unspoken, since she loves you 

well. 
Has leave to love you:— while for me, 

alas, 
If once or twice I let my lieart escape 
This night, . . remember, where hearts 

slip and fall 
They break beside: we're parting, — 

parting, — ah, 
You do not love, that you should surely 

know 
What that word means. Forgive, be 

tolerant ; 
It had not been, but that I felt myself 
So safe in impuissance and despair, 
I could not hurt you though I tossed my 

arms 
And sighed my soul out. The most 

utter wretch 
Will choose his postures when lie comes 

to die. 

However in the presence of a queen : 
And you'll forgive me some unseemly 

spasms 
Which meant no more than dying. Do 

you think 
[ had ever come here in my perfect 

mind, 
Unless I had come here in my settled 

mind ^ 

Bound Marian's, bound to keep the bond 

and give 
Vfy name, my liouse, my hand, the 

things I could. 
To Marian ? For even I could give as 

much : 
5ven I, affronting her exalted soul 
}y a supposition that she wanted these, 
Zou\A act the husband's coat and hat set 

up 



To creak i' the wind and drive the world- 
crows off 
From pecking in her garden. Straw can 

fill 
A ho'e to keep out vermin. Now, at 

last, 
I own heaven's angels round Jier life 

suffice 
To fight the rats of our society, 
Without this Roniney : I can see at 

last : _ 
And here is ended my pretention which 
The most pretended. Over-proud of 

course. 
Even so !— but not so stupid . . blind 

. . that I, 
Whom thus the great Taskmaster of the 

world 
Has set to meditate mistaken work, 
My dreary face against a dim blank wall 
Throughout man's natural lifetime, — 

could pretend 
Or wish . . O love, I have loved you I 

O my soul, 
I have lost you ! — but I swear by all 

yourself. 
And all you might have been to me these 

years 
If that June-morning had not failed my 

hope, — 
I'm not so bestial, to regret that dav 
This night. — this night, which still to 

you is fair ; 
Nay, not so blind, Aurora. I attest 
Those ''tars above us which I cannot 

see' . . . 

' You cannot.' , . 

' That if Heaven itself should stoop. 

Remix the lots, and give me another 
chance, 

I'd say, ' No other ! ' — I'd record my 
blank. 

Aurora never should be wife of mine.' 

' Not see the stars?' 

' 'Tis worse still, not to see 

To find your hand, altliough we're part- 
ing, dear. 

A moment let me hold it ere we part; 

And understand my last words- these at 
last ! 

I would not have you thinking when I'm 
gone 

That Romney dared to hanker for your 
love 



4S8 



AURORA LEIGH. 



In thought or vision, if attainable, 
(Which certainly for me it never was) 
And wished to use it for a dog to-day. 
To help the blind man stumbling. God 

forbid ! 
And now I know he held you in his 

palm, 
And kept you open-eyed to all my faults, 
To save you at last from such a dreary 

end. 
Believe me, dear, that if I had known 

like Him 
What loss was coming on me, I had 

done 
As well in this as He has.— Farewell 

you 
Who are still my light,— farewell I How 

late it is: 
I know that, now : you've been too pa- 
tient, sweet. 
I will but blow my whistle toward the 

lane, 
And some one comes . . the same who 

brought me here. 
Get in — Good night.' 

' A moment. Heavenly Christ ! 
A moment. Speak once, Romney. 'Tis 

not true. 
I hold your hands, I look into your 

face — 
You see me ? ' 

' No more than tlie blessed stars. 
Be blessed too, Aurora. Nay, my 

sweet, 
You tremble. Tender-hearted ! Do 

you mind 
Of yore, dear, how you used to cheat old 

John, 
And let the mice out slilyfrom his traps, 
Until he marvelled at the soul in mice 
Which took the cheese and left the 

snare ? 'I'he same 
Dear soft heart always ! 'Twas for this 

I grieved 
Howe's letter never reached you. Ah, 

you had heard 
Of illness, — not the issue . . not the 

extent : 
My life long sick with tossings up and 

down, 
The sudden revulsion in the blazing 

house. 
The strain and struggle both of body 
and soul, [blood: 

Which left fire running in my veins for 



Scarce lacked that thunderbolt of the •. 

falling beam 
Which nicked me on the forehead as I : 

passed 
The gallery-door with a burden. Say / 

heaven's bolt, 
Not William Erie's, not Marian's fa- ■ 

ther's,— tramp 
And poacher, whom I found for what he ■ 

was, 
And, eager for her sake to rescue him, 
Forth swept from the open highway of 

the world. 
Road-dust and all,— till like a woodland; 

boar 
Most naturally unwilling to be tamed, 
Fie notched me with his tooth. But not 

a word 

To Marian ! and I do not think, be- 
sides. 
He turned the tilting of the beam myj 

way,— 
And if he laughed, as many swear, poor 

wretch, 

Nor he nor I supposed the hurt so deep.)| 
We'll hope his next laugh may be mer- 
rier. 
In a better cause.' 

' Blind, Romney?' 

' Ah, my friend.l 
You'll learn to say it in a cheerful voice.i 
1, too, at first desponded. To be blind^ 
Turned out of nature, mulcted as a man, 
Refused the dally largesse of the sun 
To humble creatures ! When the fever's 

heat 
Dropped from me, as the flame did trom 

my house, 
And left me ruined like it, stripped of al 
The hues and shapes of aspectable life, 
A mere bare blind stone in the blaze ov 

day, 
A man, upon the outside of the earth, 
As dark as ten feet under, in the grave, 
: Why that seemed hard.' 

' No hope ?' 

' A tear ! you weep! 
Divine Aurora? tears upon my hand ! 
I've seen you weeping for a mouse, : 

bird.— 
But, weep for me, Aurora ? Yes, there' 

hope. 
Not hope of sight,— I could be learned 
dear, ["ami 

And tell you in what Greek and Latnl 



AURORA LEIGH. 



4S9 



The visual nerve is withered to the root, 
Though the outer eyes appear iiidiflfer- 

ent, 
Unspotted in their chrystals. But there's 

hope. 
The spirit, from behind this dethroned 

sense, 
Sees, waits in patience till the walls 

break up 
From which the bas-relief and fresco 

have dropt : 
There's hope. The man here, once so 

arrogant 
And restless, so ambitious, for his part, 
)f dealing with statistically packed 
Disorders, (from a pattern on his nail,) 
And packing such things quite another 

way, — 
Is now contented. From his personal 

loss 
He has come to hope for others when 

they lose, 
And wear a gladder faith in wliat we 

gain . . 
Through bitter experience, compensation 

sweet. 
Like that tear, sweetest. I am quiet 

now, 

As tender surely for the suffering world. 

But quiet, — sitting at the wall to learn, 

Jontent henceforth to do the thing I 

can : 
For, though as powerless, said I, as a 

stone, 
\ stone can still give shelter to a worm, 
-^nd it is worth while being a stone for 

that : 
There's hope, Aurora.' 

' Is there hope for me ? 
Forme ?— and is there room beneath the 

stone 
For such a worm ?— And if I came and 

said . . 
Vhat all this weeping scarce will let me 

say, 
\nd yet what women cannot sav kt all 
3ut weeping bitterly . , (the pride keeps 

lip, 
Jntil the heart breaks under it) . . I 

love, — 
love you, Romney ' . . 

_' Silence ! ' he exclaimed. 
A woman's pity sometimes makes her 

mad. [soul 

k naan's distraction must not cheat his 



To take advantage of it. Yet, 'tis hard- 
Farewell, Aurora.' 

* But I love you, sir : 
And when a woman says she loves a 

man, 
The man must hear her, though he 

love lier not. 
Which . luish ! . . he lias leave to 

answer in liis turn ; 
She will not surely blame him. As for 

me, 
You call it pity, — think I'm generous? 
'Twerc somewhat easier, for a woman 

proud 
As I am, and I'm very vilely proud, 
'lo let It pass as such, and press on you 
Love born of pity,-seeing that excellent 

loves 
Are born so, often, nor the quick.ier die, 
And this would set me higher by the 

head 
Than now I stand. No matter: let the 

truth 
Stand high ; Aurora must be humble : 

no, 
My love's not pity merely. Obviously 
I'm not a generous woman, never wa.s, 
Or else, of old, I had not looked so near 
lo weights and measures, grudging you 

the power 
To give, as first I scorned your power to 

judge 
For me, Aurora : I would have no gifts 
Forsooth, but God's,— and 1 would use 

ihent too 
According to my pleasure and my choice, 
As He and I were equals,— vou below, 
Excluded from that level of'interchange 
Admitting benefaction. You were wrong 
In much ? you said so. I was wrong in 

most. 
Oh, most ! You only though to rescue 

men 
By half-means, half-way. seeing half 

their wants,. 
While thinking nothing of your personal 

gam. 
But I who saw the human nature broad 
At both sides, comprehending too the 

soul's, 
And all the high necessities of Art, 
Betrayed the thing I saw, and wronged 

my own life 
For which I pleaded. Passioned to 
exalt 



AURORA LEIGH. 



490 

The artist's instinct in me at the cost 
Of putting down the woman's— I forgot 
No perfect artist is developed here 
From any imperfect woman. Slower 

from root, 
And spiritual from natural, grade by 

grade , , , 

In all our life. A handful of the earth 
To make God's image 1 the despised 
poor earth, , , • 1 

The healthy odorous earth,— I missed, 

with it, , , , 

The divine Breath that blows the nos- 
trils out 
To ineffable inflatus: ay, the breath 
Which love is. Art is much, but Love is 
more. 

Art, my Art, thou'rt much, but Love 

is more ! , t ■ /- j 

Art symbolises heaven, but Love is Ood 
And makes heaven. I, Aurora, fell from 

mine : ,., , . 

1 would not be a woman like the rest, 
A simple woman who believes m love 
And owns the right of love because she 

loves, . ■ r , 

And, hearing she's beloved, is satisfied 
With what contents God : I must ana- 
lyse, . -r a 
Confront, and question ; just as if a tly 
Refused to warm itselt in any sim 
Till such was in leo7ie : I must fret 
Forsooth, because the month was only 

May ; 
Be faithless of the kind of proffered love, 
And captious, lest it miss my dignity. 
And scornful, that my lover sought a 

wife 
To use . . to use ! O P.omney, O my 

love, 
I am changed since then, changed 

whoUv.^for indeed 
If now you'd stoop so low to take my 

love. 
And use it roughly, without stmt or 

spare. 
As men use common things with more 

behind, 
(And, in this, ever would be more be- 
hind) 
To any mean and ordinary end,— • 
The joy would set me like a star, in 

heaven, 
So high up, 1 should shine because ot 
height 



And not of virtue. Yet in one respect, 
Just one, beloved, I am in no wise 

changed : , 

I love you, loved you . . loved you first •{ 

and last, 
And love you on for ever. Now I know . 
I loved you always, Romney. She who 

Knew that, and said so ; Lady Walde- 

mar 
Knows that ; . . and Marian : I had 

known the same 
Except that I was prouder than I knew, 
And not so honest. Ay, and as I live, 
I should have died so, crushing in my\ 

hand . 

This rose of love, the wasp mside andi 

Ignoring ever to my soul and you 

Both rose and pain, — except for this: 

great loss. 
This great despair.— to stand before your 

face 
And know you do not see me where 1 

stand. 
You think, perhaps, I am not changed 

from pride. 
And that I chiefly bear to say suchi 

words 
Because you cannot shame me with your 

eves ? • , , • 

calm, grand eyes, extinguished in a 

storm, , . 1 

Blown out like lights o er melancholy 

seas, 
Though shrieked for by the shipwrecked 

— O my Dark, 
My Cloud, —to go before me every day 
While I go ever toward the wilderness,— 

1 would "that you could see me bare t( 

the soul ! 
If this be pity, 'tis so for myself. 
And not for Romney : he can stan<n, 

alone ; i 

A man like him is never overcome : || 
No woman like me, counts him pitiable |[, 
While saints applaud him. He mistool 

the world : , 1 ^ 

But I mistook my own heart,— and th.i 

slip .„ , 

Was fatal. Romney,— will you leave m 

here? 
So wrong, so proud, so weak, so • mcor 

soled, I 

So mere a woman 1— and I love you 50:|K 



AURORA LEIGH, 



I love you, Romney.' 

Could I see his face, 
I wept so? Did I drop against Iiis 

breast, 
Or did Iiis arms constrain me ? Were 

my cheeks 
Hot, overflooded, with mv tears, or his? 
And which of our two large explosive 

hearts 
So shook me? That, I know not. There 

were words 
That broke in utterance . . melted, in 

tile fire ; 
Embrace, that was convulsion, . . then 

a kiss 
As long and silent as the ecstatic night, 
A.nd deep, deep, shuddering breaths, 

which meant beyond 
Whatever could be told by word or kiss. 

But what he said . . I have written day 
by day, 

rVitli somewhat even writing. Did I 
think 

That such a passionate rain would inter- 
cept 

^nd dash this last page? What lie said. 

indeed, 
fain would write it down here like the 
rest 

'o keep it in my eyes, as in mv ears, 

'he heart's sweet scripture, to be read 
at niglit 

Vhen weary, or at morning when afraid, 

.nd lean my heaviest oath on when I 
swear 

hat when all's done, all tried, all count- 
ed here. 

dl great arts, and all good philosophies, 

"his love just puts its hand out in a 
dream, 

.nd straight outstretches all things. 
, . ,_, . What he said, 

fain would write. But if an angel spoke 

1 thunder, should we, haply know much 
more 

han that it thundered? If a cloud 
cnnie down 

nd wrapt us wholly, could we draw its 
* shape. 

if on the outside and not overcome? 
id so he spake. His breath against 
my face 

onfused his words, yet made them more 
intense, — 



49* 

As when the sudden finger of the wind 
Will wipe a row of single city-lamps 
lo a pure white line of flame, more 

uimiuous 
Because of obliteration ; more intense, 
The intimate presence carrying in itself 
Complete communication, as with souls 
Who, having put the body off, perceive 
Through simply being. 'Ihus, 'twas 

granted me 
To know he loved me to the depth and 

height 
Of such large natures, ever competent 
With grand horizons by the sea or land, 
1 o love's grand sunrise. Small spheres 

liold small fires: 
But he loved largely, as a man can love 
Who baffled in his Jove, dares live his 

life, 
Accept the ends which God loves for 

his own. 
And lift a constant aspect. 
J , , ^ , From the dav 

1 brought to England my poor searching 

(An orphan even of my father's grave) 
He had loved me, watched me, watched 

his soul in mine, 
Which in me grew and heightened into 

love. 
For he, a boy still, had been told the 

tale 
Of how a fairy bride from Italy, 
With smells of oleanders in iier hair 
Was coming through the vines to touch 

his hand ; 
Whereat the blood of boyhood on tlie 

palm 
Made sudden heats. And when at last I 

came. 

And Jived before him, lived, and rarely 
smiled, 

He smiled and loved me for the thine I 
was, ^ 

As every child will love the year's first 
nower, 

(Not certainly the fairest of tlie year. 

But, in winch, the complete year seems 
to blow) 

The poor sad snowdrop,— growing be- 
tween drifts, ' " 

My.s^eiious medium 'twixt the plant and 

So faint with winter while so quick with 
spring, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



So cioubtful if to thaw itself away 
With that snow near it. Not that Rom- 

nev Leigh 
Had loved nie coldly. If I thought so 

once, 
It was as if I had held my hand in fire 
And shook for cold. But now 1 under- 
stood 
For ever, that the very fire and heat 
Of troubling passion in him burned him 

clear, 
And siiaped to dubious order, word and 

act. 
That, just because he loved me over all. 
All wealth, all lands, all social privilege. 
To which cliance made him unexpected 

heir. 
And, just because on all these lesser 

gifts, 
Constrained by conscience and the sense 
of wrong ^ 

He had stamped with steady hand God s 

arrow-mark 
Of dedication to the human need, 
He tliought it should be so too, with his 

love : 
He, passionately loving, would bnng 

down 
His love, his life, his best, (because the 

best) 
His bride of dreams, who walked so still 

and high 
Through "flowery poems as through 

meadow-grass, 
'J'lie dust of golden lilies on her feet, 
Tli.it she should walk beside him on the 

rocks 
111 all that clang and hewing out of men, 
And help the work of help wliich was 

iiis life. 
And prove he kept back nothing,— not 

his soul. 
And when I failed him,-for I failed 

him, I— 
And when it seemed he had missed my 

love, — he tliought, 
' Aurora makes room for a working- 
noon ; ' 
And so, self-girded with torn strips of 

hope, 
Took up liis life as if it were for death, 
(Just capable of one heroic aim.) 
And tlirew it in the thickest of the world. 
At which men laughed as if he had 
drowned a dog. 



-since Aurora failed him 



No wonder 

first ! 
The morning and the evening made his 

day. 
But oh, the night ! oh, bitter-sweet 1 oh, 

sweet ! 
O dark, O moon and stars, O ecstasy 
Of darkness ! O great mystery of love, 
In which absorbed, loss, anguish, treas- 
on's self 
Enlarges rapture,— as a pebble dropt l 
In some full wine-cup over-brims tho[ 

wine ! , , , I 

While we two sate together, leaned tliat 

night I 

So close, my very garments crept and| 

thrilled 
With strange electric life ; and both my 

cheeks 
Grew red, then pale, with touches from 



my 



hair 



In which his breath was ; while the gold 
en moon , , i 

Was liung before our faces as the badgcj 
Of some sublime inherited despair. 
Since ever to be seen by only one,— 
A voice said, low and rapid as a sigh, 
Yet breaking, I felt conscious, from 

smile, 
'Thank God, who made me blind, t 

make me see ! 
Shine on, Aurora, dearest light of soub 
Which rul'st for evermore both day ai, 

night ! 
I am happy.' . ] 

I flung closer to his breast, ' 
As sword that, after battle, flings t 

sheath ; 
And, in that hurtle of united souls, 
The mystic motions which in comnic 

moods 
Are shut beyond our sense, broke m c 

us. 
And, as we sate, we felt the old eart 

spi'if 
And all the starry turbulence of worlds 
Swing round us in their audient circle; 

till , I 

If that same golden moon were overlie; \ 
Or if beneath our feet, we did nor kno^ 
And then calm, equal, smooth \vi 

weights of joy . . , 

His voice rose, as some chief musiciar 

song ' 



AURORA LEIGH. 



493 



Amid ihe old Jewish temple's Selah- 

pause, 
And bade me ziiark how we two met at 

last 
Upon this moon-bathed promontory of 

earth, 
To give up much on each side, then take 

all. 

* Beloved,' it sang, ' we must be here to 

work ; 
And men who work can only work for 

men, 
And, not to work in vain, must compre- 
hend 
Humanity, and so work humanly. 
And raise men's bodies still by raising 

souls. 
As God did first.' 

' But stand upon the earth,' 
I said, ' to raise them,— (this is human 

too ; 
There's nothing high which has not first 

been low, 
My liumbleness, said One, has made me 

great!) 
As God did last.' 

' And woik all silently, 
And simply,' he returned, *as God does 

all ; 
Distort our nature never for our work, 
I Nor count our right hands stronger for 
I being hoofs. 

; The man most man, with tenderest hu- 
[ man hands. 

Works best for men, — as God in Naza- 
reth.' 

He paused upon the word, and then re- 
sumed : 

* Fewer programmes, we who have no 

prescience. 
Fewer systems, we who are held and do 

not hold. 
Less mapping out of masses to be saved, 
, By nations or by sexes. Fourier's void, 
' And Comte absurd,— and Cabet, puerile. 

Subsists no law of life outside of life, 
I No perfect manners, without Christian 

souls: 
The Christ himself had been no Law- 
giver, 
Unless he had given the life, too, with 
the law.' 

echoed thoughtfully — ' 'I'lie man, most 
man, 



Works best for men : and, if most man 

indeed. 
He gets liis manhood plainest from hi? 

sou! : 
While obviously tiiis stringent soul itself 
Obeys our old law of development ; 
The Spirit ever witnessing in ours. 
And Love, the soul of soul, within the 

soul, 
Evolving it sublimely. First, God's 

love. ' 

'And next,' he smiled, ' the love of 

wedded souls. 
Which still presents that'mystery's coun- 
terpart. 
Sweet shadow-rose, upon the water of 

life. 
Of such a mystic substance, Sharon 

ga\e 
A name lo ! human, vital, fructuous rose, 
Whose calyx liolds the multitude of 

leaves. 
Loves filial, loves fraternal, neighlxjur- 

loves, 
And civic, . . all fair petals, all good 

scents, 
All redderied, sweetened from one central 

Heart!' 

' Alas,' I cried, ' it was not long ago, 
You swore this very social rose smelt 
ill.' 

' Alas,' he answered, ' is it a rose at all ? 

The filial's thankless, the fraternal's 
hard. 

The rest is lost. I do but stand and 
think, 

Across the waters of a troubled life 

The Flower of Heaven so vainly over- 
hangs, 

What perfect counterpart would be in 
sight, 

If tanks were clearer. Let us clean the 
tubes, 

And wait for rains. O poet, O my love, 

Since 7 was too ambitious in my deed. 

And thought to distance all men in suc- 
cess. 

Till God came on me, marked the place, 
and said, 

'Ill-doer, henceforth keep witinn thl« 
line, 

Attempting less than others,!— and / 
stand • ■ ■ ' • ■ ' 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And work among Christ's little ones, 

content, — 
Come thou, my compensation, my dear 

^'S'^f; ... 

My morning-star, r^^y morning ! rise and 

shine, 
And touch my hil's with radiance not 

their own. 
Siiiiie out for two, Aurora, and fulfil 
iMy falling-short that must be ! work for 

two. 
As I, though thus restrained, for two, 

.shall love ! _ 
Gaze on, with inscient vision towaid the 

sun, 
And, from his visceral heat, pluck out 

tiie roots 
Of light beyond him. Art's a service, — 

mark : 
A silver key is given to thy clasp, 
And thou shalt stand unwearied, night 

and day, 
And fix it in the hard, slow-turning wards, 
And open, so, that intermediate door 
Betwixt the different planes of sensuous 

form 
And form insensuous, that inferior men 
May learn to feel on still through these 

to those. 
And bless thy ministration. The world 

waits 
For Iielp. Beloved, let us love so well, 
Our work shall still be better for our 

love, 
And still our love be sweeter for our 

work, 
And both commended, ft r the sake of 

each. 
By all true workers and true lovers born. 
Now press thy clarion on thy woman's 

(Love's holy kiss shall still keep conse- 
crate) 

And breathe the fine keen breath along 
the brass. 

And blow all class-walls level as Jeri- 
cho's 

Past Jordan ; crying from the top of 
souls, 

lo souls, that here assembled on earth's 
flats, 



To get them to some purer eminence 
Than any hitherto beheld for clouds ! 
What height we know not, — but the way 

we know, 
And how by mounting ever, we attain. 
And so climb on. It is the hour for 

souls ; 
That bodies, leavened by the will and 

love. 
Be lightened to redemption. The world's 

old; 
But the old world waits the time to be 

renewed : 
Toward which, new hearts in individual 

growth 
Must quicken, and increase to multitude 
In new dynasties of the race of men,— 
Developed whence, shall grow spon- 

tanec 
New ch 



taneously 
urch( 
aws 



es, new ceconomies, new 



Admitting freedom, new societies 
Excluding falsehood. He shall make 
all new.' 

My Romney ! — Lifting up my liand in 

his, 
As wheeled by Seeing spirits toward the 

east. 
He turned instinctively, — where, faint 

and far. 
Along the tingling desert of th sky. 
Beyond the circle of the conscious hills, 
Were laid in jasper-stone as clear as 

glass 
The first foundations of that new, near 

Day 
Which should be builded out of lieaven 

to God. 
He stood a moment with erected brow.s, 
lu silence, as a creature might, who 

gazed: 
Stood calm, and fed his blind. ,najestic 

eyes 
Upon the thought of perfect noon. And 

when 
I saw his soul saw, — 'Jasper first,' I 

said. 
'And second, sapphire; third, chalce-" 

dony ; 
The rest in order, . , last, an amethyst.' 



LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 

A ROMANCE OF THE AGE. 

A poet zurites to his friend — Place — A rootn in Wycombe Hall. Time — Latt 
in the evening. 

Dear my friend and fellow-student, I would lean my spirit o'er you ; 
Down the purple of this chamber, tears should scarcely run at will : 
I am humbled who was humble ! Friend, — I bow my head before you I 
You should lead me to my peasants ! — but their faces are too still. 

There's a lady — an earl's daughter ; she is proud and she is noble : 
And she treads the crimson carpet, and she breathes the perfumed air ; 
And a kingly blood sends glances up her princely eye to trouble. 
And the shadow of a monarch's crown is softened in her hair. 

She has halls among the woodlands, she has castles by the breakers. 
She has farms and she has manors, she can threaten and command. 
And the palpitating engines snort in steam across her acres. 
As they mark upon the blasted heaven the measure of her land. 

There are none of England's daughters who can show a prouder presence ; 
Upon princely suitors praying, she has looked in her disdain : 
She has spnmg of English nobles, I was born of English peasants ; 
What was /that I should love her — save for competence to pam 1 

I was only a poor poet, made for singing at her casement. 
As the finches or the thrushes, while she thought of other things. 
Oh, she walked so high above me, she appeared to my abasement. 
In her lovely silken murmur, like an angel clad in wings ! 

Many vassals bow before her as her carriage sweeps their door-ways ; 
She has blest their little children, — as a priest or queen were she. 
Far too tender or too cruel far, her smile upon the poor was, 
For I thought it was the same smile which she used to smile on me. 

She has voters in the commons, she has lovers in the palace — 

And of all the fair court-ladies, few have jewels half as fine : 

Oft the prince has named her beauty, 'twixt the red wine and the chalice : 

Oh, and what was /to love her ? my Beloved, my Geraldine ! 

Yet I could not choose but love her — T was born to poet uses — 
To love all things set above me, all of good and all of fair : 
Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, we are wont to call the Muses — 
And in nympholeptic climbing, poets pass from mount to star. 

And because I was a poet, and because the people praised me. 
With their critical deduction for the modern writer's fault ; 
I could sit at rich men's tables, — though the courtesies that raised me, 
Still suggested clear between us the pale spectrum of the salt. 



^^6 LADV GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 

And they praised me in her presence : — ' Will your book appear this summer?' 
Then returning to each other — ' Yes, our plans are for the moors ; ' 
Then with whisper dropped behind me — 'There he is ! the latest comer ! 
Oh, she only likes his verses 1 what is over, she endures. 

' Quite low born 1 self-educated ! somewliat gifted though by nature, — 
And we make a point by asking him, — of being very kind ; 
You may speak, he does not hear you ; and besides, he writes no satire, — 
All these serpents kept by charmers, leave their natural sting behind.* 

I grew scornfuller, grew colder, as I stood up there among them. 
Till as frost intense will burn you, the cold scorning scorched my brow ; 
When a sudden silver speaking, gravely cadenced, overrung them, 
And a sudden silken stirring touched my uiner nature through. 

I looked upward and beheld her I With a calm and regnant spirit. 
Slowly round she swept her eyelids, and said clear before them all — 
' Have you such superfluous honor, sir, that able to confer it 
You will come down, Mr. Bertram, as my guest to Wycombe Hall? ' 

Here she paused, — she had been paler at the first word of her speaking ; 
But because a silence followed it, blushed somewhat as for shame ; 
Then, as scorning her own feeling, resumed calmly — ' I am seeking 
More distinction than these gentlemen think worthy of my claim. 

' Nevertheless, you see, I seek it — not because I am a woman,' 
(Here her smile sprang like a fountain, and, so, overflowed her mouth) 
' But because my woods in Sussex have some purple shades at gloaming 
Which are worthy of a king in state, or poet in his youth. 

' I invite you, Mr. Bertram, to no scene for worldly speeches — 

Sir, I scarce should dare — but only where God asked the thrushes first — 

And \\ you will sing beside them, in the covert of my beeches, 

I will thank you for the woodlands, . . . for the human world at worst.' 

Then she smiled around right childly, then she gazed around right queenly ; 
And I bowed — I could not answer ! Alternate light and gloom — 
While as one who quells the lions, with a steady eye serenely. 
She, with level fronting eyelids, passed out stately from the room. 

Oh, the blessed woods of Sussex, I can hear them still around me, 
With their leafy tide of greenery still ripplivjg up the wind ! 
Oh, the cursed woods of Sussex ! where the hunter's arrow found me. 
When a fair face and a tender voice had made me mad and blind ! 

In that ancient hall of Wycombe, thronged the numerous guests invited, 
And the lovely London ladies trod the floors with gliding feet ; 
And their voices low with fashion, not with feeling, softly freighted 
All the air about the windows, with elastic laughters sweet. 

For at eve, the open windows flung their light out on tVie terrace. 
Which the floating orbs of curtains did with gradual shadow sweep ; 
While the swans upon the river, fed at morning by the heiress, 
Trembled downward through their snowy wings at music In their sleep. 



LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 

And there evermore wasmiusic, both of instrument and singing ; 
Till the finches of the shrubberies grew restless in the dark ; 
But the cedars stood up motionless, each in a moonlight ringing. 
And the deer, half in the glimmer, strewed the hollows of the park. 

And though sometimes she would bind me with her silver-corded speeches, 

To commix my words and laughter with the converse and the jest. 

Oft I sat apart, and gazing on the river through the beeches, 

Heard, as pure the swans swam down it, her pure voice o'erfloat the rest. 

In the morning, horn of huntsman, hoof of steed, and laugh of rider. 
Spread out cheery from the court-yard till we lost them in the hills ; 
While herself and other ladies, and her suitors left beside her. 
Went a-wandering up the gardens through the laurels and abeles. 

Thus, her foot upon the new-mown grass — bareheaded — with the flowing 
Of the virginal white vesture gathered closely to her throat ; 
With the golden ringlets in her neck just quickened by her going. 
And appearing to breathe sun for air, and doubting if to float, — 

With a branch of dewy maple, which her right hand held above her. 
And which trembled a green shadow in betwixt her and the skies. 
As she turned her face in going, thus, she drew me on to love her. 
And to worship the divineness of the smile hid in her eyes. 

Frr her eyes alone smile constantly : her lips have serious sweetness, 
Ax\^ her front is calm — the dimple rarely ripples on her cheek : 
But her deep blue eyes smile constantly, — as if they in discreetness 
Kept the secret of a happy dream she did not care to speak. 

Thus she drew me the first morning, out across into the garden : 
And I walked among her noble friends and could not keep behind ; 
Spake she unto all and unto me — ' Behold, I am the warden 
Of the song birds in these lindens, which are cages to their mind. 

'But within this swarded circle, into which the lime-walk brmgs us — 
Whence the beeches rounded greenly, stand away in reverent fear ; 
I will let no music enter, saving what the fountain sings us. 
Which the lilies round the basin may seem pure enough to hear. 

' The live air that waves the lilies waves this slender jet of water 

Like a holy thought sent feebly up from soul of fasting saint ! 

Whereby lies a marble Silence, sleeping ! (Lough the sculptor wrought herj 

So asleep she is forgetting to say Hush ! — a fancy quaint ! 

' Mark how heavy white her eyelids-! not a dream between them lingers I 
And the left hand's index droppeth from the lips upon the cheek : 
.Vnd the right hand, — with the symbol rose held slack within the fingers,-^ 
Has fallen back within the basin — yet this Silence will not speak ! 

' That the essential meaning growing may exceed the special symbol. 
Is the thought as I conceive it : it applies more high and low. 
Our true noblemen will often through right nobleness grow humble. 
And assert an inward honor by denying outward show,' 



498 fiADV GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 

'Nay, your Silence,' said I, ' truly holds her symbol rose but slackly, 
Yet she holds it — or would scarcely be a Silence to our ken ! 
And your nobles wear their ermine on the outside, or walk blackly 
In the presence of the social law as most ignoble men. 

• Let the poets dre::m such dreaming ! Madam, in these British Islands, 
'Tis the substance that wanes ever, 'tis the symbol that exceeds ; 
Soon we shall have nought but symbol ! and for statues like this Silence, 
Shall accept the rose's image — in another case, the weed's.' 

' Not so quickly !' she retorted, — ' I confess where'er you go, you 

Find for things, names — shows for actions, and pure gold for honor clear ; 

But when all is run to symbol in the Social, I will throw you 

The world's book which now reads drily, and sit down with Silence here.' 

Half in plaj'fulness she spoke, I thought, and half in indignation ; 

Friends who listened laughed her words off while her lovers deemed her fair. 

A fair woman — flushed with feeling, in her noble-lighted station 

Near the statue's white reposing — and both bathed in sunny air ! 

With the trees round, not so distant but you heard their vernal murmur. 
And beheld in light and shadow the leaves in and outward move ; 
And the little fountain leaping toward the sun-heart to be warmer. 
And recoiling in a tremble from the too much light above. 

'Tis a picture for remembrance ! and thus, morning after morning. 

Did I follow as she drew me by the spirit to her feet — 

Why, her grayhound followed also ! dogs — we both were dogs for scorning — ■ 

To be sent back when she pleased it and her path lay through the wheat. 

And thus, morning after morning, spite of vows and spite of sorrow. 
Did I follow at her drawing, while the week-days passed along ; 
Just to feed the swans this noontide, or to see the fawns to-morrow. 
Or to teach the hill-side echo some sweet Tuscan in a song. 

Ay, for sometimes on the hill-side, while we sat down in the govvans. 

With the forest green behind us, and its shadow cast before ; 

And the river running under ; and across it from the rowans 

A brown partridge whirring near us, till we felt the air it bore — 

There, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud the poems 

Made by Tuscan flutes, or instruments more various of our own ; 

Read the pastoral parts of Spenser — or the sujjtle uUerflowings 

Found in Petrarch's sonnets — here's the book — the leaf is folded down ! — 

Or at times a modern volume. — Wordsworth's solemn-thoughted idyl, 
Howitt's ballad-verse, or Tennyson's enchanted reverie, — 

Or from Browning some ' Pomegranate.' which, if cut deep down the middle, - 
Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity. 

Or at times T read there, hoarsely, some new poem of my making — 

Poets ever fail in reading their own verses to their worth, — 

For the echo in you breaks upon the words which you are speaking. 

And the chariot-wheels jar in the gate through which you drive them forth. 



LADV GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 499 

After, w/ien we were grown tired of books, the silence round us flinging 
A slow arm of sweet compression, felt with beatings at the breast. 
She would break out on a sudden, in a gush of woodland singing. 
Like a child's emotion in a god — a naiad tired of rest. 

Oh, to see or hear her singing ! scarce I know which is divinest — 
For her looks sing too — she modulates her gestures on the tune ; » 

And her mouth stirs with the song, like song ; and when the notes are finest, 
'Tis the eyes that shoot out vocal light and seem to swell them on. 

Then we talked — oh, how we talked ! her voice, so cadenced in the talking. 
Made another singing — of the soul ! a music without bars — 

While the leafy sounds of woodlands, humming round where we were walking. 
Brought interposition worthy sweet, — as skies about the stars. 

And she spake such good thoughts natural, as if she always thought them — 
And had sympathies so rapid, open, free as bird on branch 
Just as ready to fly east as west, whichever way besought them. 
In the birchen wood a chirrup, or a cock-crow in the grange. 

In her utmost rightness there is truth — and often she speaks lightly, 
Has a grace in being gay, which even mournful souls approve. 
For the root of some grave earnest thought is under-struck so rightly. 
As to justify the foliage and the waving flowers above. 

And she talked on — ive talked, rather ! upon all things — substance — shadow-^ 
Of the sheep that browsed the grasses — of the reapers m the corn — 
Of the little children from the schools, seen winding through the meado%' — 
Of the poor rich world beyond them, still kept poorer by its scorn. 

So of men, and so, of letters — books are men of higher stature. 
And the only men that speak aloud for future times to hear : 
So, of mankind in the abstract, which grows slowly into nature. 
Yet will lift the cry of ' progress,' as it trod from sphere to sphere. 

And her custom was to pr.-xise me when I said, — ' The Age culls simples' 
With a broad clown's back turned broadly to the glory of the stars — 
We are gods by our own reck'ning, — and may well shut up the temples. 
And wield on, amid the incense-steam, the thunder of our cars. 

' For we throw out acclamations of self-thanking, self-admiring. 
With, at every mile run faster, — ' O the wondrous wondrous age,* 
Little thinking if we work our souls as nobly as our iron. 
Or if angels will commend us at the goal of pilgrimage. 

' Why, what is this patient estrance into nature's deep resources. 
But the child's most gradual learning to walk upright without bane? 
When we drive out from the cloud of steam, majestical white horses. 
Are we greater than the first men who led black ones by the mane ? 

' If we trod the deeps of ocean, if we struck the stars in rising. 
If we wrapped the globe intensely with a one hot electric breath, 
'Twere but power within our tfther — no new spirit-power comprising 
And in life we were not greater men, nor bolder men in death.' 



5^o LADV GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 

She was patient with my talking ; and I loved her — loved her certes^ 
As I loved all Heavenly objects, with uplifted eyes and hands ! 
As I loved pure inspirations — loved the graces, loved the virtues. 
In a Love content with writing his own name on desert sands. 

Or at least I thought so purely !— thought no idiot Hope was raising 

Any crown to crown Love's silence^silent Love that sat alone — 

Out, alas ! the stag is like me— he, that tries to go on grazing 

With the great deep gun-wound in his neck, then reels with sudden moan. 

It was thus I reeled ! I told you that her hand had many suitors — 
But she smiles them down imperially, as Venus did the waves — 
And with such a gracious coldness, that they cannot press their futures 
On the present of her courtesy, which 3'ieldingly enslaves. 

And this morning, as I sat alone within the inner chamber 
With the great saloon beyond it lost in pleasant thought serene — 
For I had been reading Camoens — that poem you remember. 
Which his lady's eyes are praised in, as the sweetest ever seen. 

And the book lay open, and my thought flew from it, taking from it 
A vibration and impulsion to an end beyond its own. 
As the branch of a green osier, when a child would overcome it. 
Springs up freely from his clasping and goes swinging in the sun. 

As I mused I heard a murmur, — it grew deep as it grew longer — 
Speakers using earnest language — ' Lady Geraldine, you wo^ld /* 
And I heard a voice that pleaded ever on, in accents stronger 
As a sense of reason gave it power to make its rhetoric good. 

Well I knew that voice — it was an earl's, of soul tUat matched his station- 
Soul completed into lordship — might and right read on his brow : 
Very finely courteous — far too proud to doub:. his domination 
Of the common people, — he atones for grandeur by a bow. 

High straight forehead, nose of eagle, cold blue eyes, of less expression 

Than resistance, coldly casting off the looks of other men. 

As steel, arrows, — unelastic lips, which seem to taste possession. 

And be cautious lest the common air should injure or distrain. 

For the rest, accomplished, upright — ay, and standing by his order 
With a bearing not ungraceful ; fond of art, and letters too ; 
Just a good man made a proud man, — as the sandy rocks that border 
A wild coast, by circumstances, ui a regnant ebb and flow. 

Thus I knew that voice — I heard it — and I could not help the hearkening : 
In the room I stood up blindly, and my burning heart within 
Seemed to seethe and fuse my senses, till they ran on all sides darkening. 
And scorched, weighed like melted metal round my feet that stood therein 

And that voice, I heard it pleading, for love's sake — for wealth, position. 

For the sake of liberal uses, and great actions to be done— 

And she interrupted gently, ' Nay, my lord, the old tradition 

Of your Normans, by some worthier hand than mine is, should be won.' 



LADV GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 

'Ah, that whjte hand,' he said quickly, — and in his he either drew it 
Or attempted — for with gravity and instance she replied— 
• Nay, indeed, my lord, this talk is vain, and we had best eschew it. 
And pass on like friends, to other points less easy to decide.' 

What he said again, I know not. It is likely that his trouble 
Worked his pride up to the surface, for she answered in slow scorn — 
' And your lordship judges rightly. Whom I marry, shall be noble. 
Ay, and wealthy. 1 shall never blush to think how he was born.' 

There, I maddened ! her words stung me ! Life swept through me into fever. 

And my soul sprang up astonished ; sprang fuU-statured in an hour: 

Know you what it is when anguish, with apocalyptic never. 

To a Pythian height dilates you,— and despair sublimes to power? 

From my brain the soul-wings budded ! — waved a flame about my body. 
Whence conventions coiled to ashes : I felt self-drawn out, as m.an, 
From amalgamate false natures ; and I saw the skies grow ruddy 
With the deepening feet of angels, and I knew what spirits can. 

I was mad — inspired— say either ! anguish worketh inspiration 
Was a man or beast— perhaps so ; for the tiger roars when speared ; 
And I walked on, step by step, along the level of my passion— 
Oh my soul ! and passed the doorway to her face, and never feared. 

He had left her, — peradventure, when my footstep proved my coming — 
But for her — she half arose, then sat— grew scarlet and crew pale : 
Oh she trembled ! — 'tis so always with a worldly man or woman 
In the presence of true spirits — what else can they do but quail ? 

Ob, she fluttered like a tame bird, in among its forest brothers 
Far too strong for it ! then drooping, bowed her face upon her hands — 
And I spake out wildly, fiercely, brutal truths of her and others ! 
/, she planted in the desert, swathed her, windlike, with my sands. 

I plucked up her social fictions, bloody-rooted though leaf-verdant. 
Trod them down with words of shaming, — all the purple and the gold. 
All the ' landed stakes ' and lordships — all that spirits pure and ardent 
Are cast out of love and honor because chancing not to hold. 

* For myself I do not argue, said I, ' though I love you. madam ; 
But for better souls that nearer to the height of yours have trod. 
And this age shows to my thinking, still more infidels to Adam, 
Than directly, by profession, simple infidels to God. 

'Yet, O God,' I said, ' O grave,' I said, ' O mother's heart and bosom. 
With whom first and last are equal, saint and corpse and little child I 
We are fools to your deductions, in these figments of heart-closing ! 
We are traitors to your causes, in these .'sympathies defiled ! 

'Learn more reverence, madam, not for rank or wealth — thai needs no learning ; 
That comes quickly — quick as sin does, ay, and culminates to sin ; 
But for Adam's seed, man ! Trust me, 'tis a clay above your scorning. 
With God's image stamped upon it, and God's kindling breath within. 



502 LADV GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 

' What right have 5'ou, madam, gazing in your palace mirror daily, 
Getting so by heart your beauty which all others must adore. 
While you draw the golden ringlets down your fingers, to vow gaily 
You will wed no man that's only good to God, — and nothing more ? 

' Why, what right have you, made fair by that same God — the sweetest woman 
Of all women He has fashioned — with your lovely spirit-face. 
Which would seem too near to vanish if its smile were not so human. 
And your voice of holy sweetness, turning common words to grace, 

' What right can you have, God's other works to scorn, despise, revile them 

In the gross, as mere men, broadly — not as nodte men, forsooth, — 

As mere Parias of the outer world, forbidden to assoil them 

In the hope of living, dying, near that sweetnees of your mouth ? 

• Have you any answer, ma lam ? If my spirit were less earthly. 
If its instrument were gifted with a better silver string, 
I would kneel down where I stand, and say — Behold me ! I am worthy 
Of thy loving, for I love thee ! I am worthy as a king. 

'As it is— your ermined pride, I swear, shall feel this stain upon her— 
That /, poor, weak, tost with passion, scorned by me and you again. 
Love you, Aladam — dare to love you — to my grief and your dishonor — 
To my endless desolation, and your impotent disdain 1' 

More mad words like these — more madness ! friend, I need not write them fuller ; 
And I hear my hot soul dropping on the lines in showers of tears — 
Oh, a woman ! friend, a woman ! Why, a beast had scarce been duller 
Than roar bestial loud complaints against the shining of the spheres. 

But at last there came a pause. I stood all vibrating with thunder 
Which my soul had used. Ihe silence drew her face up like a call. 
Could you guess what word she uttered ? She looked up, as if in wonder. 
With tears beaded on her lashes, and said ' Bertram !' It was all. 

If she had cursed me — and she might have — or if even, with queenly bearing 
Which at needs is used by women, she had risen up and said, 
•Sir, you are my guest, and therefore I have given you a full hearing — 
Now, beseech you, choose a name exacting somewhat less instead' — 

I had borne it !— but that ' Bertram' — why it lies there on the paper 
A mere word, without her accent, — and you cannot judge the weight 
Of the calm which crushed my passion ! I seemed drowning in a vapor, — 
And her gentleness destroyed me whom her scorn made desolate. 

So. struck backward and exhausted by that inward flow of passion 
Which had rushed on, sparing nothing, into forms of abstract truth. 
With a logic agonizing through unseemly demonstration. 
And with youth's own anguish turning grimly gray the hairs of youth, — 

By the sense accursed and instant, that if even I spake wisely 
I spake basely — lusing truth, — if what I spake indeed was true- 
To avenge wrong on a woman — ker, who sat there weighing nicely 
A full manhood's worth, found guilty of such deeds as I could do !— 



LADV GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 503 

Vith such wrong and wo exhausted — what 1 suffered and occasioned, 

js a wild horse through a city runs with lightning in his eyes, 

nd then dashing at a church's cold and passive wall, impassioned, 

trikes the death into his burning brain, and blindly drops and dies — 

3 I fell, struck down before her ! Do you blame me friend, for weakness? 
"was my strength of passion slew me ! — fell before her like a stone ; 
ast the dreadful world rolled from me, on its roaring wheels of blackness! 
/^hen the light came I was lying in this chamber — and alone. 

h, of course, she charged her lacqueys to bear out the sickly burden, 
nd to cast it from her scornful sight — but not beyond the gate — 
le was too kind to be cruel, and too haughty not to pardon 
ich a man as I — 'twere something to be level to her hate. 

It for me — you now are conscious why, my friend, I write this letter, 
ow my life is read all backward, and the charm of life undone ! 
ihall leave her house at dawn — 1 would to-night, if I were better — 
nd I charge my soul to hold my body strengthened for the sim. 

''hen the sun has dyed the oriel, I depart with no last gazes, 
o weak moanings — one word only left m writing for her hands, 
at of reach of all derision, and some imavailing praises, 
3 make front against this anguish in the far and foreign lands. 

ame me not, I would not squander life in grief — I am abstemious : 
3ut nurse my spirit's falcon, that its wings may soar again : 
iiere's no room for tears of weakness in the blind eyes of a Phemius ; 
to work the poet kneads them, — and he does not die till then. 

CONCLUSION. 

;rtram finished the last pages, while along the silence ever 
ill in hot and heavy splashes, fell the tears on every leaf: 
aving ended, he leans backward in his chair, with lips that quiver 
om the deep unspoken, ay, and deep unwritten thoughts of grief. 

h ! how still the lady standeth ! 'tis a dream ! — ajdream of mercies ! 
wixt the purple lattice-curtains, how she standeth still and pale ! 
is a ^'^sion, sure, of mercies, sent to soften his self-curses — 
nt to sweep a patient quiet o'er the tossing of his wail. 

-yes,' he said, ' now throbbit\g through me ! are ye eyes that did undo me? 
lining eyes, like antique jewels set in Parian statue-stone ! 
iderneath that calm white forehead, are ye ever burning torrid 
er the desolate sand-desert of my heart and life undone V 

ith a murmurous stir uncertain, in the air, the purple curtain 
/elleth in and swelleth out around her motionless pale brows ; 
hile the gliding of the river sends a rippling noise for ever 
hrough the open casement whitened by the moonlight's slant repose. 



504 LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 

Said he—' Vision of a lady ! stand there silent, stand there steady ! 
Nov^ I see it plainly, plainly ; now I cannot hope or doubt- 
There, the brows of mild repression— there, the lips of silent passion. 
Curved like an archer's bow to send the bitter arrows out. 

Ever evermore the while in a slow silence she kept smiling. 
And approached him slo>vly, slowly, in a gliding measured pace ; 
With her tv/o white hands extended, as if praying one offended. 
And a look of supplication, gazing earnest in his face. 

S;iid he—' Wake me by no gesture,— sound of breath, or stir of vesture ; 
Let the blessed apparition melt not yet to its divine ! , , . 

No approaching— hush ! no breathing ! or my heart must swoon to death in 
That too utter life thou bringest— O thou dream of Geraldine ! 

Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept smiling— 
Bat the tears ran over lightly from her eyes, and tenderly ; 

• Dost thou, Bertram, truly love me ? Is no woman far above me 
Found more worthy of thy poet-heart than such a one as I? 

Said he— • I would dream so ever, like the flowing of that river. 

Flowing ever in a shadow greenly onward to the sea ; 

So. thou vision of all sweetness— princely to a full completeness,— 

Would my heart and life flow onward— deathward— through this dream ot Ihek^ 

Ever, evermore the while in slow silence she kept smiling. 

While the silver tears ran faster down the blushing of her cheeks ; I 

Then with both her hands enfolding both of his, she softly told him, 

* Bertram, if I say I love thee, . . . 'tis the vision only speaks. 

Softened, quickened to adore her, on his knee he fell before her— 
And she whispered low in triumph— ' It shall be as I have sworn 1 
Very rich he is in virtues, — very noble — noble, certes ; 
And I shall not blush in knowing that men call him lowly bom I 




LORD WALTER'S WIFE. 

But why do you go ? ' said the lady, while both sate under the vew 

ma her eyes were alive ui their depth, as the kraken beneath the sea-blu«. 

Because 1 fear you,' he answered ; ' because you are far too fair 
uid able to strangle my soul in a mesh of your gold-colored hair.' 

Oh, that.' she said ' is no reason ! Such knots are quickly undone, 
tud too much beauty, I reckon, is nothing but too much sun.' 

Yet, farewell so,' he answered ;— ' the sun-stroke's fatal at times. 

value your husband. Lord Walter, whose gallop rings still from the limes.' 

Oh. that,' she said. ' is no reason. You smell a rose through a fence : 

r two should smell it, what matter ? who grumbles, and where's the pretence?' 

But I,' he replied, ' have promised another, when love was free, 

love her alone, alone, who alone and afar loves me.' 

Why, that, she said, 'is no reason. Love's always free, I am told. 

/ill you vow to be safe from the headache on Tuesday, and think it will hold ? ' 

But you.' he replied, ♦ have a daughter, a young little child, who was laid 

1 your lap to be pure ; so I leave you : the angels would make me afraid.' 

^Jj' that,' she said, ' is no reason. The angels keep out of the way ; 

nd Dora, the child, observes nothing, although you should please me and stay.' 

t which he rose up in his anger, — ' Why, now, you no longer are fair! 
'hy, now, you no longer are fatal, but ugly and hateful, I swear.' 

t which she laughed out in her scorn,—' These men ! Oh, these men overnice. 
no are shocked if a color not virtuous, is frankly put on by a vice.' 

er eyes blazed upon him—' And you ! You bring us your vices so near 
liat we smell them ! You think in our presence a thought 'twould defame us to 
hear ! 

rVhat reason had you, and what right,— I appeal to your soul from my life — 
D tind me too fair as a woman ? Why, sir, I am pure, and a wife. 

;s the day-star too fair up above you ? It burns you not. Dare you imply 
orushed you more close than the star does, when Walter had set me as high ? 

f a man finds a woman too fair, he means simply adapted too much 
J uses unlawful and fatal. The praise !— shall I thank you for such ? 



5o6 LORD WALTER'S WIFE. 

' Too fair ! — not unless you misuse us ! and surely if, once in a while. 
You attain to it, straightway you call us no longer too fair, but too vile. 

' A moment, — I pray your attention ! — I have a poor word in my head 
I must utter, though womanly custom would set it down better unsaid. 

' You grew, sir, pale to impertinence, once when I showed you a ring. 
You kissed my fan when 1 dropped it. No matter ! — I've broken the thing. 

' You did me the honor, perhaps, to be moved at my side now and then 

In the senses — a vice, I have heard, which is common to beasts and some men, 

' Love's a virtue for heroes ! — as white as the snow on high hills. 
And immortal as every great soul is that struggles, endures and fulfils. 

' I love my Walter profoiuidly, — you, Maud, though you faltered a week. 
For the sake of . . what was it 1 an eyebrow ? or, still less, a mole on a cheek ? 

' And since, when all's said, you're too noble to stoop to the frivolous cant 
About crimes irresistible, virtues that swindle, betray and supplant, 

' I determined to prove to yourself that, whate'er you might dream or avow. 
By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me than you have now. 

' There ! Look me in the face ! — in the face. Understand, if you can. 
That the eyes of such women as I am, are clean as the palm of a man. 

' Drop his hand, you insult him. Avoid us for fear we should cost you a scar — 
You take us for harlots, I tell you, and not for the women we are. 

' You wronged me : but then I considered , . . there's Walter ! And so at th«^ 

end, 
I vowed that he should not be mulcted, by me, in the hand of a friend. 

' Have I hurt you indeed ? We are quits then. Nay, friend of my Walter, b«i 

mine ! 
Come, Dora, my darling, my angel, and help me to ask him to dine.' 




LAST POEMS. 



To 



Grateful Florence,'^ to the Municipality, her Representative, and to 
Tommaseo, its Spokesman, Most Gratefully. 



LITTLE MATTIE. 



AD ! Thirteen a month ago ! 

ihort and narrow her life s walk. 

ver's love she could not know 

iven by a dream or talk : 

o young to be glad of youth ; 

Missing honor, labor, rest, 

d the warmth of a babe's mouth 

Vt the blossom of her breast. 

1st you pity her for this, 

d for all the loss it is— 

ti, her mother, with wet face, 

ving had all in your case ? 



t so young but yesternight, 
nTow she is as old as death, 

ek, obedient in your sight, 
Jentie to a beck or breath 
ly on last Monday ! yours, 
^.nswering you like silver bells 

htly touched ! an hour matures : 
low can teach her nothing else. 

has seen the mystery hid 
der Egypt's pyramid. 

those eyelids pale and close 

w she knows what Rhamses knows. 



>ss her quiet hands, and smooth 
)own her patient locks of silkj 
d and passive as in truth 
*ou your fingers in spilt milk 
!w along a marble floor ; 
ut her lips you cannot wring 
3 saying a word more, 
Yes ' or ' no,' or such a thing. 
)ugh you call, and beg, and wreak 
If your soul out in a shriek, 

will lie there in default 
i most innocent revolt. 



Ay, and if she spoke, may be 

She would answer like the Son, 
' What is now 'twixt thee and me ?' 

Dreadful answer ! better none. 
Yours on Monday, God's to-day ! 

Yours, your child, your blood, your 
heart, 
Called . . . you called her, did you say, 

• Little Mattie ' for your part S. 
Now already it sounds strange. 
And you wonder, in this change. 
What He calls His angel-creature. 
Higher up than you can reach her. 

V. 

'Twas a green and easy world 

As she took it ! room to play, 
(Though one's hair might get uncurled 

At the far end of the day.) 
What she suffered she .shook off 

In the sunshine ; what she sinned 
She could pray on high enough 

To keep safeabove the wind. 
If reproved by God or you, 
'Twas to better her she knew ; 
And if crossed, she gathered still, 
'Twas to cross out something ill. 



You, you had the right, you thought. 

To survey her with sweet scorn, 
Poor gay child, who had not caught 

Yet the octave-stretch forlorn 
Of your larger wisdom ! Nay, 

Now your places are changed so. 
In that same superior way 

She regards you dull and low 
As you did herself exempt 
From life's sorrows. Grand contempt 
Of the spirits risen awhile. 
Who look back with such a smile. 



io8 



VOID IN LAIV, 



There's the sting of 't. That, I think, 

Hurts the most, a thousand-fold 1 
To feel sudden, at a wink. 

Some dear child we used to scold. 
Praise, love both ways, kiss and tease, 

Teach and tumble as our own. 
All its curls about our knees. 

Rise up suddenly full-grown. 
Who could wonder such a sight 
Made a woman mad outright 1 

Show me Michael with the sword, 

Rather than such angels, Lord 1 



MAY'S LOVE. 



You love all you say. 

Round, beneath, above me : 
Find me then some way 

Better than to love me, 
Me, too, dearest May I 



O world-kissing eyes 

Which the blue heavens melt to ! 
I, sad, overwise. 

Loathe the sweet looks dealt to 
All things — n.en and flies. 



You love all, you say : 

Therefore, Doar. abate me — 
Just your love, I pray I 

Shut your eyes aud hate me 
Only me — fair May I 



A FALSE STEP. 



Sweet, thou hast trod on a heart. 

Pass ! there's a world fall flf men ; 
And women as fair as thou art 

Must do such things now and then. 



Thou only hast stepped imaware,- 
Malice, not one can impute ; 



And why should a heart have bl 

there 

In the way of a fair woman's foot i 



It was not a stone that could trip. 
Nor was it a thorn that could rend 

Put up thy proud underlip ! 

'Twas merely the heart of a friend 



And yet peradventure one day 
Thou, sitting alone at the glass. 

Remarking the bloom gone away 
Where the smile in its dimplemii 
was. 



And seeking around thee in vain 
From hundreds who flattered befor 

Such a word as, 'Oh, not in the mairi 
Do I hold thee less precious, 1 
more I' 



Thou'lt sigh, very like, on thy part, 
' Of all I have known or can know, 

I wish I had only that Heart 
1 trod upon ages ago 1' 



VOID IN LAW. 



Sleep, little babe, on my knee, 
Sleep, for the midnight is chill. 

And the moon has died out in the trf 
And the great human world goeth i 

Sleep, for the wicked agree : 
Sleep, let them do as they will. 

Sleep. 



Sleep, thou hast drawn from my bres 
The last drop of milk that was goo( 

And now, in a dream, suck the rest. 
Lest the real should trouble thy blooj 

Suck, little lips dispossessed, ' 

As we kiss in the air whom we wouK 

Sleep. 



BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES. 



509 



D lips of thy father! the same, 
So like ! Very deeply they swore 

When he gave me his ring and his name, 
To take back, 1 imagined, no more ! 

And now is all changed like a game, 
Though the old cards are used as of 
yore? 

Sleep. 



' Void in law,' said the Courts. Some- 
thing wrong 
In the forms ? Yet, ' Till death part 
us two, 
I, James, take thee, Jessie,' was strong, 

And One witness competent. True 
Such a marriage was worth an old song, 
Heard in Heaven though, as plain as 
the New. 
Sleep. 



Sleep, little child, his and mine ! 

Her throat has the antelope curve. 
And her cheek just the color and line 

Which fade not before him nor swerve; 
Yet she has no child ! — the divine 

Seal of right upon loves that deserve. 
Sleep. 



My child ! though the world take her 
part, 
Sajnng, ' She was the woman to 
choose. 
He had eyes, was a man in his heart,' — 

We twain the decision refuse : 
We . . weak as I am, as thou art, . . 

Cling on to him, never to loose. 
Sleep. 



He thinks that, when done with this 
place. 
All's ended ? he'll new-stamp the ore ? 
Yes, Caesar's — but not in our case. 

Let him learn we are waiting before 
The grave's mouth, the heaven's gate, 
God's face, 
With implacable love evermore. 
Sleep. 



He's ours, though he kissed her but now ; 

He's ours, though she kissed in reply : 
He's ours, though liimself disavow. 

And God's universe favor the lie ; 
Ours to claim, ours to clasp, ours below. 

Ours above, ... if we live, if we die. 
Sleep. 



Ah baby, my baby, too rough 

Is my lullaby ? What have I said ? 

Sleep ! When I've wept long enough 
I shall learn to weep softly instead. 

And piece with some alien stuff 

My heart to lie smooth for thy head. 

Sleep. 



Two souls met upon thee, my sweet ; 

Two loves led thee out to the sun : 
Alas, pretty hands, pretty feet, 

If the one who remains (only one) 
Set her grief at thee, turned in a heat 

To thine enemy,— were it well done ? 
Sleep. 



May He of the manger stand near 
And love thee ! An infant He came 

To His own who rejected Him here 
But the Magi brought gifts all the 
same. 

/ hurry the cross on my Dear ! 
My gifts are the griefs I declaim I 

Sleep. 



BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTIN- 
GALES. 



The cypress stood up like a church 
That night we felt our love would 
hold. 
And saintly moonlight seemed to search 
And wash the whole world clean as 
gold ; 
The olives crystallized the vales' 
Broad slopes until the hills grew strong: 
The fire-flies and the nightingales 



510 



BIANCA AAfONG THE NIGHTINGALES. 



Throbbed each to either, flame and 
song. 
The nightingales, the nightingales. 



Upon the angle of its shade 

The cypress stood, self-balanced high 
Half up, half down, as double-made. 

Along the ground, against the sky. 
And ive, too ! from such soul - height 
went 

Such leaps of blood, so blindly driven, 
We scarce knew if our nature meant 

Most passionate earth or intense hea- 
ven. 
The nightingales, the nightingales. 



We paled with love, we shook with 
love. 

We kissed so close we could not vow ; 
Till Giulio whispered, 'Sweet, above 

God's Ever guaranties this Now.' 
And through his words the nightingales 

Drove straight and full their long clear 
call. 
Like arrows through heroic mails. 

And love was awful in it all. 
The nightingales, the nightingales. 



O cold wliite moonlight of the north, 

Refresh these pulses, quench this hell ! 
O coverture of deatli drawn forth 

Across this garden -chamber . . well ! 
But what have nightingales to do 

In gloomy England, called the free, . 
(Yes, free to die m ! . .) wlien we two 

Are sundered, singing .still to me? 
And still they sing, the nightmgales. 



I think I hear him, how he cried 
'My own soul's life ' between their 
notes. 
Each man has but one .soul supplied. 
And that's immortal. Though his 
throat's 
On fire with passion now, to her 

He can't say what to me he said 1 
And yet he moves her, they aver. 

The nightingales sing through my 
head. 
The nightingales, the nightingales. 



He says to her what moves her most. 

He would not name his soul within 
Her hearing,— rather pays her cost 

With praises to her lips and chin. 
Man has but one soul, 'tis ordained. 

And each soul but one love, I add ; 
Yet souls are damned and love's pro« 
faned. 

The nightingales will sing me mad 1 
The nightingales, the nightingales. 



I marvel how the birds can sing. 

There's little difference, in their view, 
Betwixt our Tuscan trees that spring 

As vital flames into the blue, 
And dull round blots of foliage meant 

Like saturated sponges here 
To suck the fogs up. As content 

Is he too in this land, 'tis clear. 
And still they sing, the nightingales. 



My native Florence I dear, foregone I 
I see across the Alpine ridge 

How the last feast-day of St. John 
Shot rockets from Carraia bridge. 

The luminous city, tall with fire. 

Trod deep down in that river of ours, 



While many a boat with lamp and choir 
d bi 
towers. 



Skimmec 



rdlike over glittering 
I will not hear these nightingales. 



I seem to float, we seem to float 

Down Arno's stream in festive guise ; 
A boat stikes flame into our boat. 

And up that lady seems to rise 
As then she rose. The shock had 
flashed 

A vision on us ! What a head. 
What leaping eyeballs ! — beauty dashed 

To splendor by a sudden dread. 
And still they sing, the nightingales. 



Too bold to sin, too weak to die ; 

Such women are so. As for me, 
I would we had drowned there, he and I, 

That moment, loving perfectly. 



Ml' KA TE. 



He had not caught her with her loosed 
Gold ringlets . . rarer in the south . . 

Nor heard the * Grazie tanto ' bruised 
To sweetness by her English mouth. 

And still they sing, the nightingales. 



She had not reached him at my heart 

With her fine tongue, as snakes in- 
deed 
Kill flies ; nor had I, for my part, 

Yearned after, in my desperate need, 
And followed him as he did her 

To coasts left bitter by the tide. 
Whose very nightingales elsewhere 

Delighting, torture and deride 1 
For stiil they sing, the nightingales. 



A worthless woman ! Mere cold clay 

As all false things are ! but so fair, 
She takes the breath of men away 

Who gaze upon her unaware. 
I would not play her larcenous tricks 

To have her looks I She lied and 
stole. 
And spat into my love's pure pyx 

The rank saliva of her soul. 
And still they sing, the nightingales. 



I would not for her white and pink. 

Though such he likes — her grace of 
limb. 
Though such he has praised — nor yet, I 
think. 

For life itself, though spent with him. 
Commit such sacrilege, aflfront 

God's nature which is love, intrude 
'Twixt two affianced souls, and hunt 

Like spiders, in the altar's wood 
I cannot bear these nightingales. 



If she chose sin, some gentler guise 
She might have sinned in, so it seems : 

She might have .pricked out both my 
eyes, 
And I still seen him in my dreams 1 

— Or drugged me in my soup or wine, 
Nor left me angry afterward : 

To die here with his hand in mine. 



His breath upon me, were not hard. 
(Our Lady hush those nightingales I) 

XV. 

But set a springe for Jiiiit, ' niio ben,' 

My only good, my first last love !— 
Though Christ knows well what sin is, 
when 

He sees some things done they must 
move 
Himself to wonder. Let her pass. 

I think of her by night and day. 
Must /too join her . . out, alas I . , 

With Giulio, in each word I say? 
And evermore the nightingales 1 



Giulio, my Guilo I— sing they so. 

And you be silent ? Do 1 speak. 
And you not hear ? An arm you throw 
Round some one, and I feel so weak ? 
—Oh, owl-like birds ! They sing for 
spite. 
They sing for hate, theysing for doom! 
They'll sing through death who Sing 
through night. 
They'll sing and stun me in the 
tomb — 
The nightingales, the nightingales 1 



MY KATE. 



She was not as pretty as women I know, 
And yet all your best made of sunshine 

and snow 
Drop to shade, melt to nought in the 

long-trodden ways. 
While she's still remembered on warm 

and cold days — 

My Kate. 



Her air had a meaning, her movements 
a grace ; 

You turned from the fairest to gaze on 
her face : 

And when you had once seen her fore- 
head and mouth, 

You saw as distinctly her soul and her 
truth— 

My Kate. 



A SONG FOR THE RAGGED SCHOOLS OF LONDON. 



Such a lilue inner light from her eyelids 

outbroke, 
You looked at her silence and fancied 

she spoke : 
When she did, so peculiar yet soft was 

the tone, 
Though the loudest spoke also, you 

heard her alone — 

My Kate. 

IV. 

I doubt if she said to you much that 

could act 
As a thought or suggestion : she did not 

attract 
Tn the sense of the brilliant or wise : I 

infer 
Twas her thinking of others, made you 

think of her — 

My Kate. 

V. 
She never found fault with you, never 

implied 
Your wrong by her right ; and yet men 

at her side 
Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the 

whole town 
The children were gladder that pulled 

at her gown — 

My Kate. 



None knelt at her feet confessed lovers 

in thrall ; 
They knelt more to God than they used, 

— that was all : 
If you praised her as charming, some 

asked what you meant. 
But the charm of her presence was felt 

when she went — 

My Kate. 



The weak and the gentle, the ribald and 

rude. 
She took as she found them, and did 

them all good ; 
It always was so with her— see what you 

have ! 
She has made the grass greener even 

herb . with her grave— 

My Kate. 



My dear one ! — when thou wast alive 

with the rest, 
I held thee the sweetest and loved thee 

the best : 
And now thou art dead, shall I not take : 

thy part 
As thy smiles used to do for thyself, my 

sweet Heart — 

My Kate, 



SONG FOR THE RAGGED 
SCHOOLS OF LONDON. 

WRITTEN IN ROME. 



I AM listening here in Rome. 

' England's strong,' say many speakers, , 
• If she winks, the Czar must come. 

Prow and topsail, to the breakers.' 



England's rich in coal and oak,' 
Adds a Roman, getting moody, 

If she shakes a travelling cloak, 
Down our Appian roll the scudi.' 



' England's righteous,' they rejoin, 
' Who shall grudge her exhaltations. 

When her wealth of golden coin 
Works the welfare of the nations ?' 



I am listening here in Rome. 

Over Alps a voice is sweeping — 
' England's cruel I save us some 

Of these victims in her keeping 1' 



As the cry beneath the wheel 
Of an old triumphal Roman 

Cleft the people's shouts like steel. 
While the show was spoilt for no man 



Comes that voice. Let others shout. 
Other poets praise my land here : 

I am sadly sitting out. 

Praying, ' God forgive her grandei; 



A SONG FOR THE RAGGED SCHOOLS OFLONDON. 



513 



Shall we boast of empire, where 
Time with ruin seems commissioned ? 

In God's liberal blue air 
Peter's dome itself looks wizened : 



And the mountains, in disdain, 
Gather back their lights of opal 

From the dumb, despondent plain. 
Heaped with jawbones of a people, 



Lordly English, think it o'er, 
Caesar's doing is all undone I 

You have cannons on your shore. 
And free parliaments in London, 



Princes' parks, and merchants' homes. 
Tents for soldiers, ships for seamen, — 

Ay, but ruins worse than Rome's 
In your pauper men and women. 



Women leering through the gas, 

(Just such bosoms used to nurse you) 

Men, turned wolves by famine — pass ! 
Those can speak themselves, and 
curse you. 



But these others — children small. 
Spilt like blots about the city. 

Quay and street, and palace-wall — 
Take them up into your pity 1 



Ragged children with bare feet, 
Whom the angels in fright raiment 

Know the names of, to repeat 

When they come on you for payment. 



Ragged children, hungry-eyed. 
Huddled up out of the coldness 

On your doorsteps, side by side, 
Till your footman damns their bold- 
ness. 



In the alleys, in the squares. 
Begging, lying little rebels ; 

In the noisy thoroughfares. 
Struggling on with piteous trebles. 



Patient children — think what pain 
Makes a young child patient — pon- 
der ! 

Wronged too commonly to strain 
After right, or wish, or wonder. 



Wicked children, with peaked chins, 
And old foreheads ! there are many 

With no pleasures except sins. 
Gambling with a stolen penny. 

XVIII. 

Sickly children, that whine low 

To themselves and not their Mothers, 

From mere habit, — never so 

Hoping help o- care from others. 



Healthy children, with those blue 
English eyes, fresh from their Maker, 

Fierce and ravenous, staring through 
At the brown loaves of the baker. 



I am listening here in Rome, 
And the Romans are confessing, 

* English children pass in bloom 
All the prettiest made for blessing.' 



Anglt angeli !' (resumed 
From the mediaeval story) 
■ Such rose angelhoods, emplumed 
In such ringlets of pure glory !' 



Can we smooth down the bright hair, 
O my sisters, calm, unthrllled in 

Our heart's pulses? Can we bear 
The sweet iooks of our own children. 



5M 



AMrs CRUEL TV. 



While those others, lean and small, 
Scurf and mildew of the city, 

Spot our streets, convict us all 
Till we take them into pity ? 

XXIV. 

• Is it our fault ?' you reply, 

' When, throughout civilization, 

Every nation's enipery 
Is asserted by starvation ? 



•AH these mouths we cannot feed, 
And we cannot clothe these bodies.' 

Well, if man's so hard indeed. 

Let them learn at least what God is I 

XXVI. 
Little outcasts from life's fold, 
The grave's hope they may be joined 
in, 
13y Christ's covenant consoled 
For our social contract's grinding. 

XXVII. 

If no better can be done, 

Let us do but this, — ^endeavor 

That the sun behind the sun 

Shine upon them while they shiver I 

XXVIII. 
On the dismal London flags, 

Through the cruel social juggle, 
Put a thought beneath their rags 

To ennoble the heart's struggle. 



O my sisters, not so much 

Are we asked for — not a blossom 
From our children's nosegay, such 

As we gave it from our bosom, — 



Not the milk left in their cup, 

Not the lamp while they are sleeping. 

Not the little cloak hung up 

While the coat's in daily keeping, — 



iJut a place in Ragged School<^, 
Where the outcasts may to-morrow 



Ijearn by gentle words and rules 
Just the uses of their sorrow. 



O my sisters I children small, 

Blue-.eyed, wailing through the city- 

Our own babes cry in them all : 
Let us take them into pity. 



AMY'S CRUELTY. 



Fair Amy in the terraced house, 

Assist me to discover 
Why you would not hurt a mous« 

Can torture so your lover. 



You give your coffee to the cat. 
You stroke the dog for coming. 

And all your face grows kinder at 
The little brown bee's humming. 



But when he haunts your door . . the 
town 
Marks coming and marks going . . 
You seem to have stitched your eyelids 
down 
To that long piece of sewing ! 



Yon never give a look, not you, 
Nor drop him a ' Good morning,' 

To keep his long day warm and blue. 
So fretted by your scorning. 



She shook her head— 'The mouse and 
bee 

For crumb or flower will linger : 
The dog is happy at my knee, 

The cat purrs at my finger. 



' But he . . to hi7)t, the least thing given 
Means great things at a distance ; 

He wants my world, my sun, my 
heaven. 
Soul, body, whole existence. 



WHERE'S AGNES f 



5«J 



' They say love gives as well as takes ; 

But I'm a simple maiden, — 
My mother's first smile vrhen she wakes 

1 still have smiled and prayed in. 



' I only know my mother's love 
Which gives all and asks nothing ; 

And this new loving sets the groove 
Too much the way of loathing. 



'Unless he gives mc all in change, 
I forfeit all things by him : 

Tlie risk is terrible and strange — 
I tremble, doubt, . . . deny him. 



' He's sweetest friend, or hardest foe. 

Best angel, or worst devil ; 
I either hate or . . love him so, 

1 can't be merely civil ! 

XI. 

' You trust a woman who puts forth 
Her blossoms thick as summer's ? 

Vou think she dreams what love : 
wortli 
Who casts it to new-comers ? 



' Such love's a cowslip-ball to fling, 
A moment's pretty pastime ; 

/ give . . all me, if anything. 
The first time and the last time. 

XIII. 

* Dear neighbor of the trellised house, 
A man should murmur never, 

Though treated worse than dog and 
mouse. 
Till doted on forever ! ' 



THE 



BEST THING 
WORLD. 



IN THE 



What's the best thing in the world ? 
June-rose by May-dew impearled ; 



Sweet south-wind that means no rain 
Truth, not cruel to a friend ; 
Pleasure not ni haste to end ; 
Beauty not self-decked and curled 
Till its pride is over-plain ; 
Light that never makes you wink ; 
Memory, that gives no pain ; 
Love, when, so, you're loved again. 
What's the best thing in the world ? 
— Something out of it, I think. 



WHERE'S AGNES? 



Nay, if 1 had come back so, 

And found her dead in her grave. 

And if a friend I know 

Had said, ' Be strong, nor rave : 

She lies there, dead below : 



I saw her, I who speak. 

While, stiflF, the face one blank : 
The blue shade came to her cheek 

Before they nailed the plank, 
For she had been dead a week.' 



Why, if he had spoken so, 

I might have believed the thing 

Although her look, although 
Her step, laugh, voice's ring 

Lived in me still as they do. 



But dead that other way. 
Corrupted thus and lost ? 

That sort of worm in the clay ? 
I cannot count the cost. 

That I should rise and pay. 



My Agnes false ? such shame ? 

She ? Rather be it said 
That the pure saint of her name 

Has stood there in her stead. 
And tricked you to this blame. 



Her very gown, her cloak 
Fell chastely : no disguise. 



5x6 



WHERE'S AGNES f 



But expression ! while she broke 

With her clear gray morning-eyes 
Full upon me and then spoke. 



She wore her hair away 

From her forehead, — like a cloud 
Which a little wind in May 

Peels off finely : disallowed 
Though bright enough to stay. 



For the heavens must have the place 
To themselves, to use and shine in. 

As her soul would have her face 
To press through upon mine, m 

That orb of angel grace. 



Had she any fault at all, 

'Twas having none, I thought too — 
There seemed a sort of thrall ; 

As she felt her shadow ought to 
Fall straight upon the wall. 



Her sweetness strained the sense 
Of common life and duty ; 

And every day's expense 
Of moving in such beauty. 

Required, almost, defence. 



What good, I thought, is done 
By such sweet things if any ? 

This world smells ill i' the sun 

Though the garden-flowers are 
many, — 

She is only one. 

XII. 

Can a voice so low and soft 

Take open actual part 
With Right, — maintain aloft 

Pure truth in life or art. 
Vexed always wounded oft ? — 

XIII. 

She fit, with that fair pose 

Which melts from curve to curve. 

To stand, run, work with those 
Who wrestle and deserve, 

And speak plain without glose ? 



But I turned round on my fear 

Defiant, disagreeing — 
What if God had sent her here 

Less for action than for Being ? 
For the eye and for the ear. 



Just to show what beauty may. 
Just to prove what music can, — 

And then to die away 

From the presence of a man. 

Who shall learn, lienceforth, to pray ? 



As a door, left half ajar 

In heaven, would make him think 
How heavenly-different are 

'I'hings glanced at through the chink. 
Till he pined from near to far. 

XVII. 

That door could lead to hell ? 

That shining merely meant 
Damnation ? What ! She fell 

Like a woman, who was sent 
Like an angel by a spell ? 

XVIII. 

She. who scarcely trod the earth. 

Turned mere dirt? My Agnes,— 
mine ! 

Called so 1 felt of too much worth 
To be used so ! too divine 

To be breathed near, and so forth ? 

XIX. 

Why, 1 dared not name a sin 
In her presence : I went round. 

Clipped its name and shut it in 
Some mysterious crystal sound, — 

Changed the dagger for the pin. 



Now you name herself that word? 

O my Agnes ! O my saint ! 
Then the great joys of the Lord 

Do not last ? Then all this paint 
Runs off nature ? leaves a board ? 



Who's dead here ? No, not she : 
Rather I ! or whence this damp 



DE FROFUNDIS. 



5»J 



Cold corruption's misery? 

Why my very mourners stamp 
Closer in the clods on me. 



And my mouth is full of dust 

Till 1 cannot speak and curse — 
Speak and damn him . . ' Blame's un- 

jlLSt'? 

Sin blots out the universe. 
All because she would and must ? 



She, my white rose, dropping off 
The high rose-tree branch ! and not 

That the night-wind blew too rough. 
Nor the noon-sun burnt too hot. 

But, that being a rose — 'twas enough ! 

XXIV. 

Then henceforth, may earth grow trees ! 

No more roses ! — hard straight lines 
To score lies out ! none of these 

Fluctuant curves ! but firs and pines. 
Poplars, cedars, cypresses ! 



DE PROFUNDIS. 



The face, which duly as the sun. 
Rose up for me with life begun. 
To mark all bright hours of the day 
With daily love, is dimmed away — 
And yet my days go on, go ©n. 



The tongue which like a stream could 

run 
Smooth music from the roughest stone. 
And every morning with ' Good day ' 
Made each day good, is hushed away — 
And yet my days to on, go on. 



The heart, which like a staff, was one 
For mine to lean and rest upon ; 
The strongest on the longest day 
With steadfast love, is caught away^- 
And yet my days go on, go on. 



And cold before my summer's done. 
And deaf in nature's general tune. 
And fallen too low for special fear, 
And here, with hope no longer here — 
While the tears drop, my days go on. 



The world goes whispering to its own, 
' This anguish pierces to the bone.' 
And tender friends go sighing round, 
' What love can ever cure this wound ?* 
My days go on, my days go on. 



The past rolls forward on the sun 
And makes all night. O dreams begun. 
Not to be ended ! Ended bliss! 
And life, that will not end in this ! 
My days go on, my days go on. 



Breath freezes on my lips to moan : 
As one alone, once not alone, 
I sit and knock at Nature's door. 
Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor. 
Whose desolated days go on. 



I knock and cry, . . Undone, undone ! 
Is there no help, no comfort — none ? 
No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains 
Where others drive their loaded wains? 
My vacant days go on, go on. 



This nature, though the snows be down. 
Thinks kindly of the bird of June. 
The little red hip on the tree 
Is ripe for such. What is for me. 
Whose days so winterly go on ? 



No bird am I to sing in June, 
And dare not ask an equal boon. 
Good ne^ts and berries red are Nati 
To give away to better creatures — 
And yet my days go on, go on. 



/ask less kindness to be done — 
Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon 



;i8 



A MUSICAL LVSTRUMENT. 



(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet 
Cool deathly touch to these tired feet, 
Till days go out which now go on. 



Only to lift the turf unmown 
From off the earth where it has grown. 
Some cubic space, and say, * Lehold, 
Creep in poor Heart, beneath that fold. 
Forgetting how the days go on,' 

XIII. 

What harm would thai do? Green 

anon 
The sward would quicken, overshone 
By skies as blue ; and crickets might 
Have leave to chirp there day and night 
While my new rest went on, went on, 

XIV. 

From gracious nature have I won 
Such liberal bounty ? May I run 
So, lizard-like, within her side. 
And there be safe who now am tried 
By days that painfully go on? 



A voice reproves me thereupon, 

More sweet than Nature's when the 

drone 
Of bees is sweetest, and more deep. 
Than when the rivers overleap 
The shuddering piaes, and thunder on. 



God's Voice, not Nature's — night and 

noon 
He sits upon the great white throne 
And listens for the creature's praise. 
What babble we of days and days ? 
The Dayspring He, whose days go on, 

XVII. 

He reigns above. He reigns alone ; 
Systems burn out and leave His throne : 
Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall 
Around Him, changeless amid all ! — 
Ancient of days, whose days go on ! 



He reigns below, He reigns alone — 
And having life in love forgone 



Beneath the crown of sovran thorns. 
He reigns the jealous God. Who 

mourns 
Or rules with Him, while days go on ? 



By anguish which made pale the sun, 
I hear him charge his saints that none 
Among the creatures anywhere 
Blaspheme against him with despair. 
However darkly days go on. 



— Take from my head the thorn-wreath 

brown. 
No mortal grief deserves that crown. 
() supreme Love, chief misery. 
The sharp regalia are for Thee 
Whose days eternally go on t 



For us, . . whatever's undergone. 
Thou knowest, wiliest what is done 
Grief may be joy misunderstood : 
Only the Good discerns the good. 
I trust Thee while ray days go on. 



Whatever's lost, it first was won ! 
We will not struggle nor impugn. 
Perhaps the cup was broken here 
That Heaven's new wine might show 

more clear. 
I praise thee while my days go on. 



I praise Thee while my days go on , 
I love Thee while my days go on ! 
Through dark and dearth, through fire 

and frost. 
With emptied arms and treasure lost 
I thank Thee while my days go on 1 



And, having in thy life-depth thrown 
Being and suffering (which are one). 
As a child drops some pebble small 
Down some deep well and hears it fall 
Smiling . , . so I ! Thv days go on 1 



FIRST NEWS FROM VILLA FRANCA. 



519 



A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. 



What was he doing, the great god Pan, 
Down in the reeds by the river? 

Spreading ruin and scattering ban, 

Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a 
goat, 

And breaking the golden lilies afloat 
With the dragon-fly on the river? 



He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 
From the deep cool bed of the river. 
The limpid water turbidly ran. 
And the broken lilies a-dying lay. 
And the dragon-fly had fled away. 
Ere he brought it out of the river. 

ill. 
High on the shore sate the great god 
Pan, 
While turbidly flowed the river. 
And hacked and hewed as a great god 

can 
With his hard bleak steel at the patient 

reed, 
Till there was not a sign of a leaf in- 
deed 
To prove it fresh from the river. 



He cut it short did the great god Pan, 
(How tall it stood in the river!) 

Then drew the pith like the heart of a 
man. 

Steadily from the outside ring. 

Then notched the poor dry empty thing 
In holes as he sate by the river. 



This is the way,' laughed the great god 
Pan, 
(Laughed while he sate by the river !) 
The only way since gods began 
To make sweet music, they could suc- 
ceed,' 

Then dropping his mouth to a hole in 
the reed, 
He blew in power by the river. 



Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan, 
Piercing sweet by the river ! 

Blinding sweet, O great god Pan ! 

The sun on the hill forgot to die, 

And the lilies revived, and the dragon- 
fly 
Came back to dream on the river. 



Yet half a beast is the great god Pan 

To laugh, as he sits by the river. 
Making a poet out of a man. 
The true gods sigh for the cost and the 

pain — 
For the reed that grows never more 
again 
As a reed with the reeds of the river. 



FIRST NEWS FROM VILLA- 
FRANCA. 



Peace, peace, peace, do you say ? 
What ! with the enemy's guns in our 

ears? 
With the country's wrong not render- 
ed back ? 
What ! while Austria stands at bay 
In Mantua, and our Venice bears 
The cursed flag of the yellow and 
black ? 



Peace, peace, peace, do you say ? 

And this the Mincio ? Where's the 

fleet? 
And where's the sea? Are we all 
blind 
Or mad with the blood shed yesterday, 
Ignoring Italy under our feet. 
And seeing things before, behind? 



Peace, peace, peace, do you say ? 

What uncontested, undenied ? 

Because we triumph, we succumb ? 
A pair of emperors stand in the way 



KING VICTOR EMANUEL. 



(One of whom is a man beside) 

To sign and seal our cannons dumb ? 



No, not Napoleon ! he who mused 
At Paris, and at Milan spake, 
And at Solferino led the fight. 

Not he we trusted, honored, used 

Our hopes and hearts for . . till they 
break. 

Even so you tell us . . in his sight I 

V. 

Peace, peace, peace, is still your word ? 
We say you lie, then, that is plain : 
There is no peace, and shall be none. 

Our very dead would cry, ' Absurd,' 
And clamor that they died in vain. 
And whine to come back to the sun. 



Hush ! more reverence for the dead ! 
They^ve done the most for Italy 
Evermore since the earth was fair. 

Now would that tve had died instead, 
Still dreaming peace meant liberty. 
And did not, could not, mean despair ? 



Peace, you say ! Yes, peace in truth ! 
But such a peace as the ear can 

achieve.. 
'Twixt the rifle's click and the rush of 
the ball. 
'Twixt the tiger's spring and the crunch 
of the tooth, 
'Twixt the dying atheist's negative 
And God's face . . waiting, after all. 



KING VICTOR EMANUEL 

Entering Florence, April, i860. 



King of us all, we cried to thee, cried to 
thee. 
Trampled to earth by the beasts im- 
pure. 
Dragged by the chariots which shame 
as they roll. 
The dust of our torment far and wide to 
thee 



Went up dark'ning the royal soul. 

Was it not so, Cavour, 
That the King was sad for the people 
in thrall. 

This King of us all ? 



King, we cried to thee !— Strong in re- 
plying. 
Thy word and sword sprang rapid 

and sure. 
Cleaving our way to a nation's place. 
O first soldier of Italy, crying 

Now grateful, exultant, we look in 
thy face. 
Is it not so, Cavour, 
That, freedom's first soldier, the freed 
should call 
First King of them all ? 



This is our beautiful Italy's birthday : 
Generous souls, whether many or 

fewer. 
Bring her the gift and wish her the 
good ; 
And heaven presents on this sunny earth- 
day 
The noble King to the land renewed. 
Is it 7iot so, Cavour ? 
Roar, cannon-mouths I — proclaim, in- 
stall 
The King of us all I 

IV. 

Grave he rides through Florence gate- 
way, 
Clenching his face into calm, to im- 
mure 
His struggling heart till it half disap- 
pears. 
If he relaxed for a moment, straightway 
He would break out into passionate 
tears — 
(Is it not so, Cavour ?) 
While rings the cry without interval, 
' Live King of us all !' 



Cry, free peoples ! — honor the nation 
By crowning the true man — and none 
is true 1 



THE SWORD OF CASTRUCCI0 CASTRUCANI. 



Pisa is here, and Livorna is here, 
And thousands of faces in wild exulta- 
tion, 
Burn over the windows to feel him 
near — 
(Is it not so, CaVour?) 
Bum over from terrace, roof, window 
and wall. 
On this King of us all. 



Grave ! A good man's ever the graver 
For bearing a nation's trust secure : 
And he, he thinks of the Heart, be- 
side. 
Which broke for Italy, failing to save 
her, 
And pining away by Oporto's tide. 
Is it not so, Cavonr, 
That he thinks of h*is vow on that royal 
pall. 
This king of us all ? 



Flowers, flowers, from the flowery city ! 
Such innocent thanks for a deed so 

pure. 
As melting away for joy into flowers 
The nation invites him to enter his Pitti 
And evermore reign on this Florence 

of ours. 
Is it not so, Cavour ? 
He'll stand where the reptiles were 
used to crawl. 
This King of us all. 



Grave as the manner of noble men is — 
The deed unfinished will weigh on 

the doer : 
And, baring his head to those crape- 
veiled flags, 
He bows to the grief of the South and 
Venice. 
— Let's riddle the last of the yellow 

to rags. 
And swear by Cavour 
Tuat the King shall reign where op- 
pressors fall, 
True King of us all. 



THE SWORD OF CASTRUCCIO 
CASTRUCANI. 

' Qiiesta e per me.' — Victor Emanuki.. 



When Victor Emanuel, the King, 
Went down to his Lucca that day. 

The people, each vaunting the thing 
As he gave it, gave all things away 
In a burst of fierce gratitude, say, 

As they tore out their hearts for the 
king. 



Gave the green forest-walk on the wall. 
With the Apennine blue through the 
trees : 
Gave palaces, churches and all 
The great pictures which bum out of 

these ; 
But the eyes of the King seemed to 
freeze 
As he glanced upon ceiling and wall. 



' Good,' said the King as he past. 

Was he cold to the arts ? or else coy 
To possession ? or crossed at the last. 

Whispered some, by the vote in 
Savoy ? 

Shout ! — love him enouglrfor his joy \ 
' Good,' said the King as he past. 



He, travelling the whole day through 
flowers, 
And protesting amenities, found. 
At Pistoia, betwixt the two showers 
Of red roses, ' the Orphans ' (re- 
nowned 
As the heirs of Puccini) who wound 
With a sword through the crowd and the 
flowers. 



' Tis the sword of Castruccio, O King ! 
In old strife of intestine hate 

Very famous. Accept what we bring. 
We, who cannot be sons by our fate, 
Tendered citizens by thee of late, 

And endowed with a country and King. 



SUMMING UP IN ITALY. 



' Read : — Puccini has willed that this 
sword 
(Which once made in an ignorant 
feud 
Many orphans) remain in our ward 
Till some patriot its pure civic blood 
Wipe away in the foe's and make 
good, 
In delivering the land by the sword,' 



Then the King exclaimed, ' This is for 
7nc J' 
And he dashed out his sword on the 
hilt, 
While his blue eye shot fire openly 
And his heart overboiled till it spilt 
A hot prayer, — God, the rest as thou 
wilt ! 
But grant me this ! — this is for tne !' 



O Victor Emanuel, the King. 

The sword be for thee, and the deed. 
And naught for the alien next spring. 

Naught for Hapsburg and Bourbon 
agreed ; 

But, for us, a great Italy freed. 
With a hero to head us, . . our King. 



SUMMING UP IN ITALY. 



(inscribed to intelligent publics out 

OF IT.j 



Observe how it will be at last, 

When our Italy stands at full stature, 
A year ago tied down so fast 

That the cord cut the quick of her 
nature ! 
Yoii'll honor the deed and its scope, 

rhen, in logical sequence upon it, 
V/ill use up the remnants of rope 

By hanging the men who have done it. 



The speech in the Commons which hits 
you 



A sketch off, how dungeons mxist 
feel.— 
The official dispatch which commits you 
From stamping out groans with your 
heel,— 
Suggestions in journal or book for 

Good efforts, — are praised ... as is 
meet : 
But what in this world can men look 
for. 
Who only achieve and complete? 



True, you've praise for the fireman, who 
sets his 
Brave face to the axle of the flame. 
Disappears in the smoke and then 
fetches 
A babe down, or idiot that's lame, — 
For the boor even, who rescues through 
pity 
A sheep from the brute who would 
kick it : 
But saviours of nations ! — 'tis pretty. 
And doubtful : they >nay be so 
wicked 1 



Azeglio, Farini, Mamiani, 

Ricasoli, — doubt by the dozen! — 
here's 
Pepoli too, and Cipriani, 

Imperial cousins and cogeners ; 

Arese, Laiatico, courtly 
, Of manners, if stringent of mouth. 
Garibaldi — we'll come to him shortly, 

(As soon as he ends in the soutti.) 



Napoleon, — as strong as ten armies. 

Corrupt as seven devils, — a fact 
You accede to, then seek where tha 
harm is 

Drained off from the man to his act. 
And find ... a free nation. Suppose 

Some hell-brood in Eden's sweet 
greenery. 
Convoked for creating ... a rose ! — 

Would it suit the infernal machinery ! 



Cavour, — to the despot's desire. 



DIED. 



Who his own thought so craftily mar- 
ries. 
What is he but just a thin wire 

For conducting the lightning from 
Paris ? 
Yes, write down the two as compeers. 
Confessing (you would not permit a 
lie) 
H t bore up his Piedmont ten years 
Till she suddenly smiled and was 
Italy. 



And the King, with that " stain on his 
'scutcheon "* 
Savoy ... as the calumny runs ! 
If it be not his blood, — with his clutch 
on 
The sword, and his face to the guns. 
O first where the battle-storm gathers, 

O loyal of hearts on the throne. 
Let those keep the 'graves of their 
fathers,' 
Who quail, in the nerve, from their 
own ! 



For thee ; — through the dim Hades- 
portal 
The dream of a voice, — ' Blessed thou 
Who hast made all thy race thrice im- 
mortal ! 
No need of the sepulchres now ! 
Left to Bourbons and Hapsburgs, who 
fester 
Above-ground with worm-eaten souls, 
While the ghost of some poor feudal 
jester 
Before them strews treaties in holes.' 



—But hush ! — am I dreaming a poem 

Of Hades, heaven, justtce ? — not I. 
I began too far off, in my proem. 

With what men believe and deny. 
And, on earth, whatsoever the meed is, 

(To sum us as thoughtful reviewers,) 
The moral of every great deed is 

The virtue of slandering the doers. 

• See Diploniatical Correspoodeuc*. 



'DIED . . . 

{Thi Times' OMitary.) 



What shall we add now ? He is dead. 

And I who praise and you who blame. 

With wash of words across his name, 

Find suddenly declared instead — 

' On Sunday, third of August, dead !'' 



Which stops the whole we talked to-day. 
I, quickened to a plausive glance 
At his large general tolerance 
By common people's narrow way, 
Stopped short in praising. Dead, they 
say. 



And you, who had just put in a sort 
Of cold deduction — ' rather, large 
Through weakness of the continent 
marge, 
Than greatness of the thing contained' — 
Broke off. Dead ! — there, you stood 
restrained. 

IV. 

As if we had talked in following one 
Up some long gallery. ' Would you 

choose 
And air like that? The gait is 
loose — 
Or noble.' Sudden in the sun 
An oubliette winks. Where is he ? 



Dead. Man's ' I was ' by God's ' I am' — 
All hero-worship comes to that. 
High heart, high thought, high fame, 
as flat 
As a gravestone. Bring your facet 

jam — 
The epitaph's an epigram. 

VL 
Dead. There's an answer to arrest 
All carping. Dust's his natural 

place ; 
He'll let the flies buzz round his face 
And though you slander, not protest.' 
— From such an one, exact the Best .' 



A FORCED RECRUIT. 



Opinions gold or brass are null. 
We chuck our flattery or abuse. 
Called Caesar's due, as Charon's 
dues, 
r the teeth of some dead sage or fool. 
To mend the grinning of a skull. 



Be abstinent in praise and blame. 

The man's still mortal, who stands 
first. 

And mortal only, if last and worst. 
Then slowly lift so frail a fame. 
Or softly drop so poor a shame. 



A FORCED RECRUIT AT SOL- 
FERINO. 



In the ranks of the Austrian you found 
him ; 

He died with his face to you all : 
Yet bury him here where around him. 

You honor your bravest that fall. 



Venetian, fair-featured and slender. 
He lies shot to death in his youth, 

With a smile on his lips over-tender 
For any mere soldier's dead mouth. 



No stranger, and yet not a traitor ! 

Though alien the cloth on his breast. 
Underneath it how seldom a greater 

Young heart, has a shot sent to rest ! 



By your enemy tortured and goaded 
To march with them, stand in their 
file, 

His musket (see !) never was loaded — 
He facing your guns with that smile. 



As orphans yearn on their mothers, 
He yearned to your patriot bands, — 

'Let me die for one Italy, brothers. 
If not in your ranks, by your hands ! 



' Aim straightly, fire steadily ; spare me 
A ball in the body, which may 

Deliver my heart here and tear me 
This badge of the Austrian away.' 



So thought he, so died he this morning. 

What then ? many others have died. 
Ay — but easy for men to die scorning 

The death-stroke, who fought side by 
side ; 



One tricolor floating above them ; 

Struck down mid triumphant acclaims 
Of an Italy rescued to love them. 

And brazen the brass with theirnames. 



But he — without witness or honor. 
Mixed, shared in his country's regard. 

With the tyrants who march in upon 
her — 
Died faithful and passive : 'twas hard. 



'Twas sublime. In a cruel restriction 
Cut off" from the guerdon of sons. 

With most filial obedience, conviction. 
His soul kissed the lips of her guns. 



That moves you ? Nay, grudge not to 
show it, 

While digging a grave for him here. 
The others who died, says our poet. 

Have glory : let hint have a tear. 



GARIBALDI. 



He bent his head upon his breast 
Wherein his lion-heart lay sick : — 
' Perhaps we are not ill-repaid — 

Perhaps this is not a true test ; 

Perhaps that was not a foul trick ; 
Perhaps none wronged, and none be- 
trayed. 



ONLY A CURL. 



5>! 



' Perhaps the people's vote which here 
United, there may disunite. 
And both be lawful as they think. 

Perhaps a patriot statesman, dear 

For chartering nations, can with right 
Disfranchise those who hold the ink. 



' Perhaps men's wisdom is not craft ; 
Men's greatness, not a selfish greed ; 
Men's justice, not the safer side. 
Perhaps even women when they laugh- 
Wept, thanked us that the land was 

freed. 
Not wholly (though they kissed us) 
lied. 



v'erhaps no more than this we meant. 
When up at Austria's guns we flew 
And spiked them with a cry apiece, 
'• Italia .'" — Yet a dream was sent . . 
The little hoase my father knew 
The olives and the palms of Nice.' 



He paused, and drew his sword out 
slow, — 
Then pored upon the blade intent 
As if to read some written thing : 

While many murmured, ' He will go 
In that despairing sentiment 
And break his sword before the King.' 



He pouring still upon the blade 

His large lid quivered, something fell. 
' Perhaps,' he said, ' I was not born 

With such fine brains to treat and trade. 
And if a woman knew it well 
Her falsehood only meant her scorn. 

VII. 

Yet through Varese's cannon-smoke 
My eye saw clear : men featcd this 

man 
At Como, where his sword could deal 
Death's protocol at every stroke. 

And now . . the drop there, scarcely 

can 
Impair the keenness of the steel. 



' So man and sword may have their use ; 

And if the soil beneath my foot 

In valor's act is forfeited, 
I'll strike the harder, take my dues 

Out nobler, and the loss confute 

From ampler heavens above my head. 



' My King, King Victor, I am thine ! 
So much Nice-dust as what I am 
(To make our Italy) must cleave. 

Forgive that.' — Forward with a sign 
He went. — You've .seen the telegram 1 
Palervtj's taken, lue believe. 



ONLY A CURL. 



Friends of faces unknown and a land 

Unvisited over the sea. 
Who tell me how lonely you stand. 
With a single gold curl in the hand 

Held up to be looked at by me ! 



While you ask me to ponder and say 

What a father and mother can do. 
With the bright yellow locks put away 
Out of reach, beyond kiss, in the clay. 

Where the violets press nearer than 
you : — 

III. 
Shall I speak like a poet, or run 

Into weak woman's tears for relief? 
Oh, children ! I never lost one. 
But my arm's round my own little son. 

And Love knows the secret of Grief. 



And I feel what it must be and is 

When God draws a new angel so 
Through the house of a man up to His, 
With a murmur of music you miss. 
And a rapture of light you forego. 

V. 

How you think, staring on at the door 
Where the face of your angel flashed 



536 



A VIEIV ACROSS THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA. 



That its brightness, famiUar before, 
Burns off from you ever the more 

For the dark of your sorrow and sin. 



• God lent him and takes him,' you 

sigh ... 
— Nay, there let me break with your 

pain. 
God's generous in giving, say I, 
And the thing which He gives, I deny 
That He can ever take back agam. 



He gives what He gives. I appeal 

To all who bear babes ! In the hour 
When the vail of the body we feel 
Rent round us, while torments reveal 
The motherhood's advent in power ; 

^ VIII. 

And the babe cries, — have all of us 
known 
By apocalypse (God bemg there. 
Full in nature !) the child is our own, — 
Life of life, love of love, moan of 
moan. 

Through all changes, all times, every- 
where. 



He's ours and forever. Believe, 

O father ! — O mother, look back 
To the first love's assurance ! To give 
Means, with God, not to tempt or de- 
ceive 
With a cup thrust in Benjamin's sack. 



He gives what He gives : be content. 
He resiimes nothing given, — be sure. 
• God lend ? — where the usurers lent 
In His temple, indignant he went 
I And scourged away all those impure. 



He lends not, but gives to the end, 

As He loves to the end. If it seem 
That he draws back a gift, comprehend 
'Tis to add to it rather . . . amend, 
And finish it up to your dream, — 



Or keep ... as a mother may toys 
Too costly though given by herself. 
Till the room shall be stiller from noise. 
And the children more fit for such joys. 
Kept over their heads on the shelf. 



So look up, friends 1 You who indeed 
Have possessed in your house a sweet 
piece 
Of the heaven which men i:trive for, 

must need 
Be more earnest than others are, speed 
Where they loiter, persist where they 
cease. 



You kr.ow how one angel smiles there. 

Then courage ! 'Tis easy for you 
To be drawn by a single gold hair 
Of that curl, from earth's storm and 
despair 

To the safe place above us. Adieu ! 



VIEW ACROSS THE ROMAN 
CAMPAGNA. 1861. 



Over the dumb campagna sea. 

Out in the offing through mist and 
rain, 
St. Peter's church heaves silently 
Like a mighty ship in pain, 
Facing the tempest with struggle and 
strain. 

II. 
Motionless waifs of ruined towers, 

Soundle.ss breakers of desolate land ! 
The sullen surf of the mist devours 
That mountain range upon eithe* 

hand. 
Eaten away from its outline grand. 



And over the dumb campagna sea 
Where the ship of the Church he»ve» 
on to wreck. 



PARTING LOVERS. 



•S»7 



Alone and silent as God must be 
The Christ walks ! — Ay, but Peter's 
neck 
Is stiff to turn on the foundering deck. 



Peter, Peter, if such be thy name. 
Now leave the ship for another to 
steer, 
An i proving thy faith evermore the 
same 
Come forth tread out through the 

dark and drear. 
Since He who walks on the sea is 
here ! 



Peter, Peter ! — he does not speak — 
He is not as rash as in old Galilee. 

Safer a ship though it toss and leak. 
Than a reeling foot on a rolling sea ! 
And he's got to be round in the girth, 
thinks he. 



Peter, Peter ! — he does not stir — 

His nets are heavy with silver fish ; 
He reckons his gains, and is keen to 
infer, 

' The broil on the shore, if the Lord 
should wish — 
But the sturgeon goes to Caesar's dish. * 



Peter, Peter, thou fisher of men, 

Fisher of fish wouldst thou live in- 
stead — 
Haggling for pence with the other Ten, 
Cheating the market at so much a 

head. 
Griping the Bag of the traitor Dead ? 



At the triple crow of the Gallic cock 
Thou weep'st not, thou, though thine 
eyes be dazed , 
What bird comes next in the tempest 
shock ? 
. . Vultures ! See — as when Romulus 

gared — 
To inaugurate Rome for a world 
amazed i 



PARTING LOVERS. 



I LOTE thee, I love thee, Giulio ! 

Some call me cold, and some demure, 
And if you have ever guessed that so 

I loved thee . . . well ; the proof was 
poor. 

And no one could be sure. 



Before thy song (with shifted rhymes 
To suit my name; did I undo 

The Persian ? If it moved sometimes, 
Thou hast not seen a hand push 

through 
A flower or two. 



My mother listening to my sleep 

Heard nothing but a sigh at night, — 

The short sigh rippling on the deep, — 
When hearts run out of breath and 

sight 
Of men, to God's clear light. 



When others named thee, thought 

thy broivs 
Where straight, thy smile was ten- 
der, ... * Here 
He comes between the vineyard- 
rows ! ' — 
I said not ' Ay,' nor waited. Dear, 
To feel thee step too near. 



I left such things to bolder girls, 

Olivia or Clotilda. Nay, 
When that Clotilda thought her curls 

Held both thin^ eyes in hers one day, 

I marvelled, let me say. 



I could not try the woman's trick : 
Between us straightway fell the hlvii. 

Which kept me separate, blind, »*td 
sick. 
A wind came with thee in a flush, 
As blown through Horeb's bush. 



Sa8 



MOTHER AND POET. 



But now that Italy invokes 

Her young men to go forth and chase 
The foe or perish, — nothing chokes 

My voice, or drives me from the 
place ; 

I look thee in the face. 



I love thee ! it is understood, 
Confest : I do not shrink or start : 

No blushes : all my body's blood 
Has gone to greaten this poor heart. 
That, loving, we may part. 



Our Italy invokes the youth 
To die if need be. Still there's room, 

Though earth is strained with dead, in 
truth, 
Since twice the lilies were in bloom 
They have not grudged a tomb. 



And many a plighted maid and wife 
And mother, who can say since then 

'My country,' cannot say through life 
' My son,' ' my spouse,' ' my flower 

of men,' 
And not weep dumb again. 

XI. 

Heroic males the country bears. 

But daughters give up more than sons. 

Flags wave, drums beat, and unawares 
You flash your souls out with the guns 
And take your Heaven at once ! 



^wtive, — we empty heart and home 
Of life's life, love ! we bear to think 

Vou're gone, . . to feel you may not 
come, 
To hear the door-latch stir and click. 
Yet no more you, . . nor sink. 



Dear God ! when Italy is one 
And perfected from bound to bound, 

Suppose (for my share) earth's undone 
My one grave in't ! as one small 

wound 
May kill a man, 'tis found. 



What then ? If love's delight must end, 
At least we'll clear its truth from 
flaws. 
I love thee, love thee, sweetest friend ! 
Now take my sweetest without a 

pause. 
To help the nation's cause. 



And thus of noble Italy 

We'll both be worthy. Let hershovr 

The future how we made her free. 
Not sparing life, nor Giuiio, 
Nor this . . this heart-break. 



MOTHER AND POET. 

(Turin— After news from Qaeta. 1861.) 

Dead ! one of them shot by the sea in 
the east. 
And one of them shot in the west by 
the sea. 
Dead! both my boys! When you sit 
at the feast 
And are wanting a great song for 
Italy free. 

Let none look at me 1 



Yet I was a poetess only last year. 
And good at my art, for a woman, 
men said. 
But this woman, this, who is agoniztd 
here. 
The east sea and west sea rhyme on 
in her head 

Forever instead. 



What art can a woman be good at ? Oh 
vain ! 
What art is she good at, but hurting 
her breast 
With the milk-teeth of babes, and a 
smile at the pain ? 
Ah, boys, how you hurt ! you wero 
strong as you pressed, 
And / proud, by that test. 



MOTHER AND POET. 



What art's for a woman ? To hold on 
her knees 
Both darlings ! to feel all their arms 
round her throat 
Cling, strangle a little ! To sew by de- 
grees. 
And 'broider the long clothes and neat 
little coat ! 
To dream and to dote. 



To teach them ... It stings there. / 
made them indeed 
Speak plain the word ' country.' / 
taught them, no doubt. 
That a country's a thing men should 
die for at need, 
/prated of liberty, rights, and about 
The tyrant turned out. 



And when their eyes flashed . , ' O my 
beautiful eyes! 
I exulted ! nay, let them go forth at 
the wheels 
Of the guns, and denied not. But then 
the surprise, 
When one sits quite alone ! Then one 
weeps, then one kneels ! 

— God 1 how the house feels 1 



At first happy news came, in gay letters 
moiled 
With my kisses, of camp-life and glory 
and how 
They both loved me, and soon, coming 
home to be spoiled. 
In return would fan off every fly from 

my brow 
With their green-laurel bough. 



Then was triumph at Turin. ' Ancona 
was free !' 
And some one came out of the cheers 
in the street. 
With a face pale as stone, to say some- 
thing to me. 
— My Guido was dead ! — I fell down 
at his feet. 

While they cheered in the street. 



I bore it — friends soothed me : my grief 
looked sublime 
As the ransom of Italy. One boy re- 
mained 
To be leant on and walked with, recall- 
ing the time 
When the first grew immortal, wh.It; 
both of us strained 

To the height he had gained. 



And letters still came, — shorter, sadder, 
more strong. 
Writ now but in one hand. ' I was 
not to faint. 
One loved me for two . . . would be 
with me ere long : 
And 'Viva Italia '/«£■ died for, our 
saint, 

Who forbids our complaint. 

XI. 

My Nanni would add ' he was .safe, and 
aware 
Of a presence that turned off the balls 
. . . was imprest 
It was Guido himself, who knew what I 
could bear. 
And how 'twas impossible, quite di.s- 
possessed. 

To live on for the rest.' 



On which without pause up the tele- 
graph line 
Swept smoothly the ne.xt news from 
Gaeta : — Shot. 
Tell his mother-. Ah, ah, — ' his,' ' their* 
mother : not ' mine.' 
No voice says ' my mother ' again to 
me. What! 

You think Guido forgot ? 



Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy 

with Heaven, 
They drop earth's affection, conceive 

not of woe ? 
I think not. Themselves were too lately 

forgiven 



NA TURE 'S REMORSES. ' 



Through that Love and Sorrow which 
reconciled so 

The Above and Below. 



O Christ of the seven wounds, who 
look'dst through the dark 
To the face of Thy mother ! consider, 
I pray, 
How we common mothers stand deso- 
late, mark. 
Whose sons, not being Christs, die 
with eyes turned away. 
And no last word to say ! 



Both boys dead ! but that's out of na- 
ture. We all 
Have been patriots, yet each house 
must always keep one, 
Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a 
wall. 
And, when Italy's made, for what 
end is it done 

If we have not a son ? 



Ah, ah. ah 1 when Gaeta's taken, what 
then ? 
When the fair wicked queen sits no 
more at her sport 
Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls 
out of men ? 
When your guns of Cavalli with final 
retort 

Have cut the game short, — 



When Venice and Rome keep their new 
jubilee. 
When your flag takes all heaven for 
its white, green, and red, 
When you have your country from 
mountain to sea. 
When King Victor has Italy's crown 
on his head, 
(And I have my dead,) 

XVIII. 

What then? Do not mock me? Ah, 
ring your bells low. 
And burn your lights faintly. My 
country is there. 



Above the star pricked by the last peak 
of snow. 
My Italy's there — with my brave civic 
Pair, 

To disfranchise despair. 



Forgive me. Some women bear chil- 
dren in strength. 
And bite back the cry of their pain in 
self-scorn. 
But the birth-pangs of nations will wring 
us at length 
Into wail such as this ! — and we sit on 
forlorn 

When the man-child is born. 



Dead ! — one of them shot by the sea in 
the west ! 
And one of them shot in the east by 
the sea ! 
Both ! both my boys ! — If in keeping 
the feast 
You want a great song for your*Italy 
free. 

Let none look at me ! 



NATURE'S REiMORSES. 

ROMK, 1861. 



Her soul was bred by a throne, and fed 
From the sucking-bottle used in her 
race 
On starch and water (for mother's 
milk 
Which gives a larger growth instead) 
And, out of the natural liberal grace. 
Was swaddled away in violet silk. 



And young and kind, and royally blind, 
Forth she stepped from her palace- 
door 

On three-piled carpet of compile 
ments. 
Curtains of incense drawn by the wind 
In between her for evermore 
And daylight issues of events. 



NATURE'S REMORSES. 



53» 



in. 
On she drew, a^ a queen might do. 
To meet a Dream of Italy, — 

Of magicat town and musical wave, 
Where even a god, his amulet blue 
Of shining sea, in an ecstasy 

Drop: and forgot in a nereid's cave. 



Down she goes, as the soft wind blows, 
To live more smoothly than mortals 
can, 
To love and to reign as queen and 
wife. 
To wear a crown that smells of a rose. 
And still, with a sceptre as light as a 
fan. 
Beat sweet time to the song of life. 



What is this ? As quick as a kiss 

Falls the smile from her girlish mouth ! 
The lion-people has left its lair. 
Roaring along her garden of bliss. 
And the fiery underworld of the South 
Scorched a way to the upper air. 



And a fire-stone ran in the form of a 
man, 
Burningly, boundingly, fatal, and fell. 
Bowling the kingdom down ! Where 
was the king ? 
She had heard somewhat, since life be- 
gan. 
Of terrors on earth and horrors in hell. 
But never, never, of such a thing ! 



You think she dropped when her dream 
was stopped. 
When the blotch of Bourbon blood 
inlay, 
Lividly rank, her new lord's cheek? 
Not so. Her high heart overtopped 
The royal part she had come to play. 
Only the men in that hour were 
weak. 



And twice a wife by her ravaged life. 
And twice a queen by her kingdom 
lost. 



She braved the shock and the 
counter-shock 
Of hero and traitor, bullet and knife. 
While Italy pushed, like a vengeful 
ghost. 
That son of the cursed from Gaeta's 
rock. 



What will ye give her, who could not 
deliver, 
German Princesses ? A laurel-wreath 
All over-scored with your signatures, 
Graces, Serenities, Highnesses ever ': 
Mock her not, fresh from the truth of 
Death, 
Conscious of dignities higher than 
yours. 



What will ye put in your casket shut. 
Ladies of Paris, in sympathy's name ? 
Guizot's daughter, what have you 
brought her ? 
Withered immortelles, long ago cut 
For guilty dynasties perished in shame. 
Putrid to memory, Guizot's daugh- 
ter ? 



Ah poor queen ! so young and so serene 1 
What shall we do for her, now hope's 
done. 
Standing at Rome in these ruins 
old. 
She too a ruin and no more a queen ? 
Leave her that diadem made by the 
sun. 
Turning her hair to an innocent 
gold. 



Ay ! bring close to her, as 'twere a rose, 
to her. 
Yon free child from an Apennine city 
Singing for Italy, — dumb in the 
place ! 
Something like solace, let us suppose, to 
her 
Given, in that homage of wonder and 
pity. 
By his pure eyes to see her beautiful 
face. 



THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH. 



Nature, excluded, savagely brooded. 
Ruined all queendom and dogmas of 
state, — 
Then in reaction remorseful and 
mild, ■ 
Rescues the womanhood, nearly eluded. 
Shows her what's sweetest in woman- 
ly fate — 
Sunshine from Heaven, and the 
eyes of a child. 



THE KING'S GIFT. 



Teresa, ah, Teresita ! 
Now what has the messenger brought 

her, 
Our Garibaldi's youngest daughter. 

To make her stop short in her singing ? 
Will she not once more repeat a 
Verse from that hymn of our hero's. 

Setting the souls of us ringing ? 
Break off the song where the tear rose ? 
Ah, Teresita ! 



A young thing, mark, is Teresa ; 
Her eyes have caught fire, to be sure, in 
That necklace of jewels from Turin, 

Till blind their regard to us men is. 
But still she remembers to raise a 
Shy look at her father, and note, 

. . . ' Could she sing on as well about 
Venice ; 
Yet wear such a frame at her throat ? 
Decide for Teresa.' 



Teresa, ah, Teresita ! 
His right hand has passed on her head. 
• Accept it, my daughter,' he said ; 

' Ay, wear it, true child of thy mother, 
Then sing, till all start to their feet, a 
New verse even bolder and freer! 

King Victor's no king like another. 
But verily noble as ive are, 
Child. Teresita 1' 



THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH. 

[the last poem.] 

Rome, May, 1861. 



' Now give us lands where olives grow,' 

Cried the North to the South, 
' Where the sun with a golden mouth 

can blow 
Blue bubbles of grapes down a vineyard 
row ! ' 
Cried the North to the South. 



' Now give as men from the sunless 
plain,' 
Cried the South to the North, 
' By need of work in the snow and the 

rain 
Made strong, and brave by familiar 
pain ! ' 
Cried the South to the North. 



' Give lucider hills and intenser seas,' 

Said the North to the South, 
'Since ever by symbols and bright de- 
grees 
An, childlike, climbs to the dear Lord's 
knees.' 
Said the North to the South. 

' Give strenuous souls for belief and 
prayer,' 
Said the South to the North, 
' That stand in the dark on the lowest 

stair. 
While affirming of God, " He is cer- 
tainly there,"' 
Said the South to the North. 



' Yet, oh, for the skies that are softer 

and higher ! ' 
Sighed the North to the South. 
' For the flowers that blaze, and the 

trees that aspire 



THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH. 



113 



And the insects made of a song or a 
fire!' 
Sighed the North to the South. 



'And oh, for a seer, to discern the 

same ! ' 
Sighed the South to the North, 
'—For a poet's tongue of baptismal 

flame. 



To call the tree and the flower by its 
name ! ' 
Sighed the South to the North. 

IV. 

The North sent therefore a man of men 

As a grace to the South, — 
And thus to Rome, came Andersen. 
' — Alas, but must you take hint 
again ? ' 

Said the South to the North. 




I 74 



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